I have lain cheek-by-jowl with carpets,
felt porcelain's cold kiss,
found comfort on park benches,
and yet it comes to this.
The stars looked down in disgust,
or was it passers-by?
I raged at indifferent phantoms,
believed that I could fly.
Now I sleep on cotton bedclothes,
a roof keeps out the stars:
I'm choking on boredom's kindness,
I dream of shabby bars.