Classic Poem

Such an old hotel. Curled up like a cat by the river at night. That kind of hotel. The hotel, in the heart of it are rooms numbered 1992, 1993, . . ., and it's been said that in the room next to mine my loved one sleeps. In my heart there is a hotel, and in that hotel, there am I again. Inside the hotel in my heart, there is a bed spread with a blue blanket, and I am lying on that bed. And in the heart of my lying body is that hotel again. Outside the hotel in my heart, a green river flows like wrinkles on a crumpled sheet of wool, and a boat full of tourists moves up and down inside my head as the water rises and falls. And with a drunken headache I'd look at the river, or I'd stand at the window that opens only by yanking at the knob. The hotel's breathing, its pulse's beating, and a silent vacuum cleaner passes by in the red carpeted hallway. And a woman with a white cap stretches her back from time to time, shaking off her cap. Keys to each room of the hotel in my heart are at the front desk and though I have a bunch of invisible keys in my pocket, I am unable to open the door to the room in the hotel in my heart and enter as I please. Oh, and did the lights in the rooms of that hotel light up at night? When they're alight, I want to throw off my blanket and fling open the doors to the rooms of the hotel in my heart. My belly button lights up with anxious desire. When the doors don't open after my frustrating pulling and yanking, I want to call someone strong. The hotel that sometimes runs like cat in the rain. The hotel that sometimes lifts me up and throws me out the window. I am told that another lunatic me who stole my sleep hides behind the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway of the hotel. That hotel; at night with lights off, looking lost like a king's crown just excavated from a tomb, not knowing where it is, and looking unfamiliar even to me when I look at it awakening from sleep. The hotel where, my love, you stick your face out of every window under the gable roof when I open all the windows in my body, as from the rows of boxes on the writing pad with a roof hanging above it. The hotel that runs away like a night-cat into the river when the morning comes and hangs its windows again above the water.