the moths on the backs of my hands
will not answer me; they sit mute
and flutter at the traffic.
once again, I’ve made
the wrong decision: whose idea was it,
to come here and wait for him,
to run a waterfull over the chairs and tables
to let him see the desperation, the dark-blood
shirt, the things in my eyes
all echoes, all froth.
the girls in white dresses have turned
away; I am ghoul, I am maiden
I am gone.
the last pavilion 