Apollo

I read poems to Apollo house.

Words spill on the roof,

bent under grey horizon,

where pigeons,

squirrels and rats are my listeners.

Wind rushes by, exhausted.

In his shadow I have spat and walked,

this winter has betrayed me.

Home is a coffin

where no snows hallow, no rains weep.

My God is a black box —

I craved an answer,

silent he stayed.

I asked for a dream,

he cursed me away.