All in Color

When the cockroaches crush my "delicate calm" the little butterflies of "my poem’s feeling" like motes of light through the open cracks of the room’s door and frame as if fly off to a nameless, distant black hole and all night long I, like a child who has realized once again he will not find that strange orange-seller, dazed and ashamed before a paper whose cheeks have gone pale in the clutch of waiting every curse, forbidden or permitted, bring to my lips against the horde of criminal cockroaches and with a swift escape take refuge in a safe place and I think I saw no cockroach and I think of the colored wings of "the butterflies of poetry" in distant plains...