Portraits. Self-Portrait

The unwound yarn has tangled itself up.
Now I’ll find the red end…

And down my legs runs the red wax
of all the nights and of the butterflies of timely joys

in the forest, in the rivers and mountains, in the caves and in the wardrobe,
in the cellar and in the attic. In the long recess and on Tuesday.

I tie the red yarn
to the little house in the forest.

In its cellar, in its attic. In its long recess and on Tuesday
there lives the Minotaur. In the other rooms it is light.