You sprinkled desert dust,
randomly
over the streets.
Looked like a yellow rust,
when it melted like butter
over the traffic
in Manhattan.

You folded swallows out of litter napkins,
and threw them over the steep slope of Grand Canyon.
They flapped gravystained wings,
flavoured the morning air.

You cut out cardboardcharacters,
sat down
and gave them royal faces.
Sent them to walk down the streets of Harlem,
decorating the graphite grey with beautiful laces.

I saw them marching trough the laminated glasswindows,
of the Café.
And came to think about when,
you used to make art out of me.