Late in the night not only that Yamaha is awake.
It skirts the rain puddle the dusk has left in the courtyard
Climbs up a dead potted plant in the north
And finds no way out. But it never quits––
Anyway, it reaches the seventh-floor balcony before two o’clock
(In the moonlight the gas tank resembles a god.)
Through the hole in the window screen it sees
A cabinet, a uniform, a small clock, newspapers
And smells dreams and fat. In the bedroom
It goes on to follow the dotted line of fate
Running fast, nearly 300 meters per hour,
Passes the right knee, pubic hair, a red scar. . . .
When a hand crushes an ant at the corner of a mouth,
The engine suddenly quiets down in the desolate street.