The last descending cinnamon stripes
Cast before an ebbing frame

Scarlet smoke following the kites
Captured underneath the flames
A truce, a whisper without a curfew
The restless hornets of the south

By far, my favourite point of view
Is still the roof of my old house
A teardrop in the loam of the dead
An eyelash tangled in the vines
The void that separates our beds
The steepest slope to reach your spine
Diving into the navel of God
Retrieving all the things I thought lost
Da di da da da / Da di da da da da
The tilted mountains taller than the clouds
Slanter than any Athenian nose
The peaks wrapped up in a cotton candy shroud
A crimson scarf matching my clothes
The smell of wet asphalt after the storm
Holier than coffee whiffs at dawn
Is probably the best bucolic art form
Along with (blooming) cherry trees and freshly mown lawn
A horseshoe pinned to my front door
A boomerang that never found its way back
In a small box in my chest of drawers
I keep a poem by Boris Pasternak
Fishing in the navel of God
With a shoelace tied to an old curtain rod

Da di da da da / Da di da da da da