Still as the death of a dead man no one knows
it is everywhere but your room
where you’re dancing on your own as before.
There too though I hear
what you do not say
in the way I wish to hear it.
Far from tousled Europe over which
what is hazy deadly will soon descend
we stand next to each other staring
almost dead like plastic chairs
and neither you nor me confessing the murder of me or you.