Everything from a distance

this way we're almost sitting in a living room,
our benches on the pier and the sea like 
a coffee table between the both of us,
only glasses with straws are missing
to suck life through.

there's is nothing that makes me reach for your hand,
nothing that makes me put my trembling fingers on your lips
or go through your hair.

the reason is in suitcases
at my feet, heavy and clumsy.
I struggle with them, but 
I wouldn't want to be somewhere else right now.

you know nothing about the living room 
and the suitcases full of objections, 
it's the wind 
that touches your hand and lips and
messes up your hair.

still you move your lips
to say:
'hey, that's enough'. 

Concerning the beginning

Every beginning is a destruction.
Every perspective on far away mountains, valleys
kills it, records it in attractive yet
clumsy positions.

Nowhere, that is nice, nowhere imposes itself as 
the inevitable alternative.

Solely is, but quickly forgotten,
away with the envelop still unopened, the wrapping paper intact,
the child before it learns what is laid out for him,

the look, the sad look, the unspeakable
happiness that bursts off from the beginning
like flakes of marble from  a statue,
masterpiece or not.

Ode to joy

Love, when there's no hope: 
only that is love. 
 
Launch a new radio probe, 
when ten have crashed,  
take two hundred rabbits 
when a hundred have died. 
only that is science. 
 
You ask for the secret. 
It only has one name: 
again. 
 
Like a caryatid 
with arms above our heads 
we bear the granite time 
 
and defeated  
we will always win.