the dry goods dealer sits in his shop and eats smoked herring from the can

like the silent aisles of food his head is neat and dreamless

his work is the line that leads him from yesterday to another night

and when he comes home alone he melts the ice off his bed

the shoppers whisper one to another about a man without hands

who lay face down in the road soaked through with oily water

the early spring rains fall on the roofs like applause at sein theater

while the clouds stand hard and black with cold smiles of discretion

the musty smell of fish permeates the beard of the dry goods dealer

to him it might as well be gardenia or rose soap

he wants a quiet capable man to date but always has no time

before the cafes wind down and the city falls asleep

the dead man is said to have smiled as though he were out for a coffee

while the light from his yellowed eyes made bystanders shiver

can a good pair of hands drop off like the sound of a passing metro

can a dead face be read like a book of philosophy

the dry goods dealer investigates the snowy hairs of his mustache

he remembers when they were black as birchwood from the fire

summer days lying on the seashore the hot sun and a willing friend

he leaves all of it outside in the rainwater to freeze

the latest play at sein is about power plant workers who have cats

everyone likes to see inside their small urban lives

they leave laughing and have a whiskey and soda beside the canal

the night is thick with spice and the sleepless people pair off

above the black clouds the moon lights up another city made of glass

and the wind howls a weird song like the hot breath of a man

but the one who walks alone hears only the rain on the old tarred road

he is still listening for the insects that eat the dead