The King

I am king of the room
My crown is the dust of morning
and the earth is my palace

I am king of the room
The giver of gifts, books cannot compete with me
Upright as a coat stand,
permanent, like damp in the walls

My days are windows
and my chair a crippled horse


I am the king of kings!
Nothing except the table
and the notebooks that lie on it
Nothing except fingers slipping into softness

Nothing other than what I own


I am a king of doors and wrung-out clothes,
of images flung against walls

A king of words in flight like flies
A king of cold

and wounded loneliness

A king of coughing
and rotting teeth

A king of borrowed time
who sometimes falters

I am a pale king
A small king

A king 

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