Pierre ReverdyLydia Davis



In the warm air of the ceiling the footlights of dreams are illuminated.
The white walls have curved. The burdened chest breathes confused words. In the mirror, the wind from the south spins, 
carrying leaves and feathers. The window is blocked. The heart is 
almost extinguished among the already cold ashes of the moon — the hands are without shelter ­ ­ ­ ­ — as all the trees lying down. In the wind from the desert the needles bend and my hour is past.