Two Cohens in the Fountain

So much less than my own sick dream
sails on past love's longing scream

no skin but the weather
no season but dark
(the comforts of money
are strewn in the park)
the books are all mothballed
the pictures curled brown
filling the boxes, hiding the crown
for unfinished work
that burdens me down

stale off the shelf or flown
off the rack
my life in dank storage
straining to look back
on clouds' illusions blown apart

another breath, another day
another doubt will never pay