In his single room all the colours
are shades of grey,
the few ornaments relics
of a dim plurality.
There will be no callers,
no letters from the black and white world today:
nothing to do tonight but relax
a febrile grip, watch one more fire die.
A wild man, the gentlest of killers,
he awaits his release calmly:
no bones to pick with fate, no real axe
to grind with eternity.
