My life


I do what I do gradually
without an inner background, yes, a childhood
and lots in-cold-blood- afterwards, but most
of it thin air, a walk on the beach with lines
of poetry on wave tops, for no reason, I'm not
filled with a genesis, no creator.
It's this or that, never this and that,
my life comes and goes, like cotton, grapes, meals,
comes and goes and eventually stays gone.

You don't know


You don't know what you're saying
In what kind of soil it falls

if it shoots up in the spring
like a thistle
a poppy
or a tulip

numbs or stimulates
when you sit in your 
stone core
and if what has been written
is alive
or not

if strange soil and fresh rain
will speak for you
or not.

You don't know.

It

What do I have to say, I said,
in order to not say it.

Lot's of silence after the ignition was turned off.
The engine was ticking, the rain more regular
on the car roof, lot's of silence, lot's of white
around the words I already imagined 

a scene. So intolerably long 
you looked, looking like the question
incarnated. What do I have to say
I ran, and wondered about the words I someday would emphasize.
Everything was possible by always staying in the moment.
Saddened you seemed to want to write it on the foggy window.

For Lily

A day took forever.
Boredom looked chic.
The gesture you made to yawn
was reviewed for its sophistication.

Powerlessness too had to limit itself
to elegant little fits down on the floor
keeping in mind the position of your little pinky.

Nothing happened. Labor
was wiping your forehead
thinking about it.

And when there was talk about emancipation
It was all about in what dress 
you would emancipate in
and with which gentleman.

Behind

Depth, yes
we all know that one
it's often whole-hearted.

But the smell of violets.
Behind that door to the other 
room.

Where every
object specifically mirrors
the lover.

Where every other person
is a rival.

That door.
Behind it.
Where songs are sung.

That one.