I like the attic,

sitting in the armchair, in --


front of the window.

From year to year there are
memories snowing, covering
and blocking the driveway

I shovel them aside
I must get out, I must
do some shopping

And when they start to melt
when they drip down
the drainpipe and run away

I lie awake in bed
listening and following
the rippling in the gutter

It makes me desperate
I want to leave, a break
to write it all down

to tell it
in the dark and be
answered, applauded

From the violence

of two jostling elephants --


the grass is injured.

My ear is colour positive
the red rim boils
from your words, a bright
light bursts from the auricle
and hangs in front of my mouth

in front of my held breath
my lips not quite open
my thoughts unspoken

my look colour negative
with well blooded brains
crossed arms, glowing
with suspicion and defiance
with the desire to attack

You won't get away with it
you won't get away with it
you won't get away with it

From the storm, the flood,

washed ashore in the silence --


of the newborn day.

In the evening I like to walk
through the streets, looking
at the people in their houses
and then I wonder who
I would like to swap with

and what kind of swap that would be
What do I give and what do I get?
A soul for a soul, maybe
not to keep forever
but, who would want mine

with all its consequences?
Of course I don't get an answer
A bird on a street-lamp
is looking at me, it's night
so it doesn't sing

whether it's free or captive
it doesn't sing, because it's night
But we're not alone now
and I'd like to swap with it
Yes, I did

Helping people with

a hundred arms breaks you up --


if you're not a god.