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There were white flowers
            Swaying outside the kitchen
                        Window in the cold air
When I came down
            From my bed. It had
                        Rained through the night but
Nothing was audible now
            But the grass sighing as it
                        Layed down in the wind.
The silent flowers before
            The empty grey sink were
                        Like a motion picture.
I came to the sink to
            Wash my face and then
                        I looked over my hands
And several cuts on the
            Knuckles, and I cracked them.
                        My father was asleep in his
Chair and the lamp at his
            Side was weak in the
                        Daylight where it fell on
His hands upturned in
            The pages of the newspaper.
                        There was a dried trail
Of saliva that made a contour
            Down his jaw and to his
                        Collar. I shook him awake.
What time is it?
            After seven. How is wheat?
                        It's fell. Help me up.