Flooded wine cellar:

the bottles become worthless –


without their labels.

Between the tangible past
I weigh what I can
put away, I weigh
what I can

All this familiar stuff
tiny things, a large suitcase
for a big trip, with a copy
of my passport from that time

Before I open the boxes, I turn
the superscription towards me
Yes, I remember
It's still there, dust-free

Kitchen equipment and crockery
empty frames and some
parts, just in case
which has not yet occurred

I know the stories
that go with it and I feel
a time difference that does not exist
in my memory of those days

Mum's dementia:

some visits are fine, they are –


never easy though.

Dementia: rats

gnaw your head empty, softly –


their fur is itchy.

Father still hangs there:
a beautiful young man
in gaudy clothes

who made himself heard
with high heels
just married, not strict

the man of duty
I have known, in working-clothes
busy with important matters

with a lenient look
at Mum dressing up
in discomfort, in the morning

of their brass wedding
both passed the switch points
continuing on each other's track

Mum in the stylish colours
she didn't need before
to belong

Father increasingly frugally fighting
for recognition of his achievements
until their bodies over the years

will turn switch points again
and he will smile leniently
at his portrait together with Mum

The feast is over,

there's ***** in the gutter –


feast for the starlings.

You jumped off the bridge,

today your name has surfaced –


in the news items.