Fine
Still smoke cigarettes when I
Am down here and write
With both lips
These lipstick songs
As the night is odd, the sun
Burning in the house by bulbs
And flowers scenting, sails
And ships on the water
Dreaming with a lot of daughters
Fishing and nothing said
And you after all, so sad
And brown and still silent, still
It is winter, in an hour I
Will be the running man