What do you know about life,
dear Gunwald;

what do I,

under these rising walls,
these fleeing years?

I scribbling under electric light,
you purring on the blanket
just under my face,

deep in the dark cloth of winter,
far into our life expectancies

Some I want to call
have no telephones
past the crack in the horizon

The steps in the hall
could be the last of someone

You could be the end of YOU
I could be the end of ME

This could be the end of SOMETHING