Nummer 16, °1974

Twee handenvol

stof tot nadenken

In elkaars evenbeeld alleen
vonden ze
troost en de bevestiging
dat het lijden van de ander
gemaakt was uit hetzelfde sterrenstof.
Ze ontkenden het bestaan van sterren
onder sluiers en
gingen toen naar bed
in gedachten alleen
als kinderen bang voor het donker
terwijl naast hun hoofdkussen
een gesluierde vrouw
versteende gebeden prevelde.

Aan een vreemdeling in de kantine van het Gorki Theater

Een aarzeling: “Na jou, ik weet nog niet wat ik neem.”
“Geen sprake van. Jij eerst.”

Mijn hemel vaart

De hemel vaart
vliedt schuift
schuifelt door het open
venster naar binnen

L'après-midi d'un saun(a)

Kalma Saun, post-KGB

Hühnergötter / Adderstones

Wounded the stone fills the crease of my hand
between life and heart and other things to come
its weight tells the hand not to forget
dead birds, broken vases, mistakes

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Delivery / Another story folds

How hard he hopes
in the split second between the bell and his fingertip
for a slow toll unsettling enough to
muster the hairs on his arm.

High Heels

The cobblestones
nudge and hold their breath
she clatters onward
forgets the sky was what she aimed for

The leather creaks with elation
drawing blood for the sidewalk seams to wet their thisty tongue
they bow down to her
Stockholm syndrome.

Coffee Universe

for Miska

I’ll have a lovely, and a coffee
in an attempt to override the
down and grey with warm and black.
No sugar.
Huddled up in this black hole
my spoon stirs words again, at last.
Two lumps of lovely.
If you are in need of some milk in
your universe, kind eyes, have my stars.

The expanse of my debt
is far greater than two forty.

On swallows and spring

Don’t be too hard on a hesitating sun, you too
would feel the exhaustion of endlessly having to
pose for pictures, right when you feel most
vulnerable, cheeks all flustered and
wishing the ground would swallow you whole.
That one swallow might not a summer make
but the light by now has nested firmly
behind our collarbones
and so the sun makes his way up the
clifftops of our flustered cheeks
out of the slumber
into the blue
  together we dig a hole in the earth
  we bury the red
  we bury the red we do not doubt it will
  grow again on darker moments and that is ok
  but now
out of the slumber
into the blue
  the light climbs pulling the curtains the
  eyelashes aside
  and there, overlooking the valley of hibernation
  his kingdom of winter desolation
he stretches himself out and grins.
It’s great to be back.