Night under Night

There was rain in the shape of a number

in form of birds and unfinished short stories


Whether dice or dancer


I can't tell if there is there

Rain, storm, or, otherwise,


I am snowed under her

In immanence of calendar


midnight blue-painted colors

of wild grasses, transmutations


of tempo, of dice, of catalyst,

the remains to be seen:


the dark in the moonlight,

rust in the freezing well,


the dancers waking at night,

beneath a wild sky


and the roamer stays in the room borrowed