The heart at 3 a.m.

                                                               Peter Bakowski

Outside
clouds
search for the moon
amongst the litter of stars.

I listen to the clock,
read the book
of my blood.

I ask myself:
What do I know?

That water erodes stone,
that loneliness erodes a human being.

I see us,
standing crossroads,
unfolding maps
of pain and wishes.

What are you thinking
when you buy a painting?
What are you thinking
when you buy a gun?

The night is full of ambulances and dreamers.

I think the meaning of life
is to shed our armour:
that’s why
I navigate my heart
to paper,
that’s why
we risk
diaries, beds and kisses.

Sadness stands on the street corner,
asking for money.
It’s cold
and he has only
one arm.
Our coins are not the sun,
our coins are not kisses.
This is the way
the world
fails itself.

An hour slithers down
a hole in the world.
What is it hunting?
The wearied city
rests its neon head
upon its dirty sleeve.

Each breath is a ticket.
Where are we going?
There is only one hangman
in the house of regret:
he lives in the mirror
that sleep
often hands us.

I stand on the balcony,
look out
over the city.
I cannot count all the rooms
that ache
for the waterfall
of a girl.

© 2000 by Peter Bakowski