After Wittgenstein

There is this bright beginning,
this Sun, which will be discussed later
in diners after funerals, maybe while fishing,
near the usual propellers.

The Dead and their shining.
Their varnish.
Especially during winter.

My yellow canna bloomed in the night.

A fool?

The Sun shines while vanishing,
propelling diners.

Truth hides in all the kernels.

One could explain Mayakovsky's suicide

using only LEGO blocks.