Like a blue yo-yo ball, the earth swings back and forth towards a child’s fist. The child is content like God before the seventh day. It rains with indifference for hours and it is still spring. All humans blessed to be alone stay like seeds and yeast in their shells without the hope of any rising.

An entire district of churches, polished and gilded, rose over hearts. No more place for public toilets, no more gutters for beggars. They sleep shoulder to shoulder, their eyes hollowed out by hunger or thirst. It smells again like dead souls, they all fall from the tree of life like apples baked on the stove, sizzling, sprouting juice and cracking on the peel. The core shows up as if it were pus under the surgeon’s blade. A flood of souls is deleted from the big list.

I come back from the market with empty bags. My neighbor has a bitter-sweet smile today, like a thread of fabric torn from the hem. The small old lady from the attic passed away. She had her rhyme poems in print at some publishing house and a photo from her youth on the cover. She begged for a soup helping and shared with vagabond cats. When I hear that another human blessed to be alone died, it feels like pressing a too ripe pear with the thumb. Against my will a dimple appears, and it doesn’t taste like honey anymore.

In my room it smells like mold more and more. My bedroom is a pantry with rotten fruits between bed sheets. It looks like I will remain a worm this spring, before becoming the ant left prisoner in a deserted mole. From my white flesh only a few fat sparrows from the nearby monastery will taste. No one escapes from the common pit, except for those who know how to dig.

my body like a bugle
I listen
to the sea ruling unsettled sand
to the sky sticking to earth like a mellow pumpkin
with all its seeds

far and away
high over this mud
gathered under the soles big as a mountain
there is my country ...
the place where I can put my finger on warm bread
on the star from the stag’s front
on the bell’s rope in the old church

from sunset towards sunrise
me too I become whiter
deep into my bones
along with this only sun
always full circle
bound to be turning around my house
as if it were the world’s beginnings

those days the sun flew like corn flour
freshly ground at the millrace
even in winter it was yellow  
when I pressed it down with my thumb
like an unfastened button on my chest

I hardly cut my way with a stick
through the tall weeds
until my knee-high socks
were filled with thistle tassels
jumping over the fence like a thief
into our apple orchard
so no one knew where I was

when the Big Dipper rose over the barn
I slipped on the manger’s opening
inside freshly cut grass
stealing my grandma’s small chair for milking  
singing for the young foal with caramel skin

those days all hearts were red and warm
in the shape of a gingerbread heart
each star was a story
whispered by fairies in the daffodils’ glade

I hardly breathe under a hodgepodge
of starched and creased clothes
my heart beats pell-mell
every time clocks take a halt
dragging one second behind
when batteries are low
(could this be a deviation towards red light?)

with straighter and longer fingers
I bow down worshiping
in front of the rising sun
the nunnery pelargonium
the red silk bookmark
forgotten inside the Book of Job
(rose hips will bloom upon my grave)

the empty space on my front
from where a star fell down
still burns with pride
I’m guilty like the deer youth
putting its muzzle damp with love
in the palm of his future hunter
(maybe time doesn’t roll on like a river)