Stairway

the sky is made of copper
that day you have to make everything 
like it was for him

the room is barbed wire
here and there some wool
no sheep in sight

everything is in the attic
says the concierge who oozes loneliness
but of the inert kind
snail of the stairway
he is a man who stays inside
to complain about the weather

and then suddenly the stairs
so worn out that they become theater stages
they make you pound your chest and use the
elevator shaft as a amplifier for that 
one song you've been sharpening since
you got weak in the knees

upstairs you wipe your forehead with wool
and ask how much salt is needed 
to get an echo out of a snail-shell