when I take off my shoes,
moonshine rots in your shoulder.
europe has a new nightgown
now completely alone it walks
at night along the glassy edges of the road.
in your home
pilgrims will pitch today
tents of all its great holidays.
tide is pain for marseille.
something, somebody always
treads before you
the powder snow here at my feet.
in spring I cannot hurry
quite angrily after a prairie.
a dealer will die alone
with a pine cone of snow
on the rug of autumn pine needles
in a hall, a tunnel, a fable,
in his own saddle bags.

so, with the indigo thread
snow hem on the razor blades, sew
on my evening dress all those gray,
gray birds of rock’n’roll. for,

you have a red hair like slovenia.