i made up a fairy tale for her
about me and tiredness
(about us?)

but she put on her lipstick
she was glad to see me

and took a bag with things

we were supposed to spend the night
together with the same story

The wind strikes from the sea.
There is a cold from our side.
Windows come to the north.

We want to overcome the distance,
to jump out on sails.
The big blue is opening for us.

We fall down pale with the breeze under our shirts.
Time was working against our will.
Slowly

we are landing
in this big jump out from overworking.
The seagulls are laughing at us with yellow beaks.

my heart got fat

i won't
be able to get anywhere at the last moment
jump into arms
fall in love
crash against compromise

from now on
i'll be always in advance
                                            at waiting rooms

train with
crushed stone rumbles:

power
   plant chimney
      warns
         of flight
                                      too far
complicated
   i’m hooked
     with thoughts

the dream did not come true:
i have a beautiful wife
one leg
left eye

appendix
full of soul
food

1.
Art of attention.
Actions are dressing up
and wear each other.

2.
Right taken away.
No chance to go on the left.
The way is straight out.

3.
Rains are carrying May.
Storms hold our breath.
Home’s drying, shrinking.

4.
The end is near.
All the ends are jumping into eyes!
Future is a dot.

5.
Form for casting
has two ends only.
Each one is a throat.

I admit: you are a little older than me.
But what if you wouldn’t be in the same story
which is not always the same for us in the same time.

What if the mountain we climb wouldn’t be so sure.
And what if – there is always plenty of ifs – the lake
we took a bath would be only a pleasant image.

The mirror of us. The winter bird in the tale
I spoke in our secret language to bury
the song we used to sang on the yesterday’s edge.

And here, and then. And the home on the other hand.
That is the hand of our IT we always shake
and never catch – as we want to – the next morning.

What is important and what more.
It depends on where you are.

A branch is wrapping the mother.
And the mother is weaving the nest.

The season of birds in the tides
and estuary of the perennial river
with a constant stream.

A spring
to grow up to. Upward
the only journey you have made.

But it has already happened.

The point
moved on the map

and the well, where
you got your fingers wet.

the clock
is ticking
and i
still wear
this jacket
from school

outerwear
in the season of otherness

the girls have already grown up
behind us traces in the snow
i come out of it all the time

a present day under my armpits –
oh, what a singularity it is not

aluminum ****** out of mother's milk is a spice
from day
     to day
          becomes bread

To this day on
I have not thrown away your photos –
they have invaded the closet;

lie in the company of broken navigation
next to the meetings at places that are gone.

Focusing my thoughts:
I believe in wounds healed by time,
not sometime,
but sometime
I forget to take out the trash.

mustangs
dispersed
towards the principles
of road traffic

to the lowlands

where have the bears gone
wolves and eagles days
in the glass fixed
by burnout

of lucky strikes

and she got married
gave birth
i’ve become kind of a relic

like sun or time

because we’ve known each other for four billion years

Mists. Street lamps lights
are a tug lighting. A moored ship: closed estate.
The crew is sleeping. What are their dreams?

Harbor siren is mute. The world has already shrunk.
News from the neighborhood are arriving.
From very far. From another dimension.

The truth about the world is hidden.
Records about it (because they were)
are locked in the iron mountain by a man.

Iron protects well against persistence.

For us remained only Pythagoras,
Plato,
Daedalus.

But we talk about Icarus most often
because defiantness and falling down
are exemplary.

You can hear it (only to hear)
in a swallow's flight when cuts an air,
when puts reality like ears of grain.

The truth is in the rustle of insects,
seasons of the year,
passing,

you can see it
in circles on the water
and honeycombs,

in trees it goes on without moving
just like in rocks,

but in the spoon of tar is the most of it.

The truth is also in the emptiness of the beach:
the sound of waves often talks about it
whenever touch of dunes on the back
tickles with it.

Then you can smile
and not even know
that the body felt the story.

For us it is just a movement of the grass
on the wind.

The short story
about the truth

it was.

When nothing meets nothing
something comes out of it.
It could be the future
whole that can’t be divided.

It could be the past with no matter
or present
day that joined with the heat in the point
of view.

It could be the look which goes further but only
see nothing and nothing
more.
Nothing but the whole world.

Our home is alive with the voices.
I’m writing down the words on the terrace.

A child is walking through the corridor.
"Someone is writing on... (It passed away)."

It's about me. In the eyes of a child
I am someone. And I am a writer.

Sometimes the poet does not live with people.
Wealth passes by
the way without words.

The entire terrace is all
not written.

As a bricklayer's assistant
he was a farmer's son first:
by result of a school mockery
he has been extracted
from the roots.

Location between distances
to yourself in a safe mode is
the perpendicular engineering
of toughening.

I am looking

at the holy picture as
he breathes calmly
during sleep

my father