This Day, Today

The sun shone, I got up, blind
for the blue sky, with cold eyes
I read numbers, moved my head and wrote
down a dream which had no people
and nothing happend,
nothing happend all day.  No phone rang,
only the sun shone and the birds' wings
rattled the air.  The whole day I wrote
lies, thought about a naked woman and paradise
and the need to name: this tree, the birds
in flight, the dark granite, this fish
in white smoke.  Signs and colors: it is a game.
I am cautious, this won't end justly.
And who can teach me what I forgot: 
the mountains' sleep,
the birds' sleep in flight, the trees' sleep.
Darkness carries their words.  
When the evening crumbles
into perfection, into death--
But I merely recite this sentence.
What do you mean, people ask, rightly so,
those with yellow faces.  Always the same
stone, always the same mountain.
Scissors cut paper.  And again someone waves
into the agitated crowd.  Sometime later
everything is quiet again.  Now the artists
call for canvas, now books fly open,
now the smoke forms fools across the rooftop.