Outside the village is the bridge
without a road, at the cemetery
Occasionally townspeople sit there
painting it
Sometimes there are children

To me, it is an image
of life and this morning
I came across a woman there
She lay on the abutment
and was scared, did not dare

to come with me, because of me
she lost her no man's land
For the rest, little happens here
There's never any news
and that is official

Was I waked
by rattling buckets
like ticking rain

against the roar
the whistling inhalation
and the musing sighs

of the ***** monster?
Curved pipes *******
into space, everything shifts

until I no longer have a hold
and my body dissolves in trance
between wringing sounds

Compact like a saucer
I swing increasingly heavy
through octaves of space debris

with withheld breath
looking forward to the redeeming
light of the eternally distant

gravity, which will
melt and burn me
if I ever arrive

A false siren song lures me
with harmonies in which
the dashboard lights up

my thoughts clear again
to chart a course
and go away

from this depression
as if there are destinations
Hope and desire

tumble through the stardust
like the splashing water
from the sources of the Moldau

The monster roars again -
Maddening at the risk
of bursting asunder

and dispersing
in debris, ticking
against the silence

like the end of a downpour
But after the calm masses roll
towering over it, ever

I float
between dream and deed
Sleeplessly

I babble a bit
wading in acquiescence
Songless

Forgive me, I won't

demand so much anymore --


and then receive more.

My father is dead,

he says nothing, but I know --


what he would say now.

I wish to begin

the day without reserve, like --


the skylark, cheerful.

For the guests there are

flowers, and hidden in them:


fleas waiting to strike.

Glimmering beauty,

clear and upside down, doubled --


in the little pond.

When it is quiet,

a tone rings out clear and light --


with all of its weight.

In the sitting room

resides the old family --


in stately portraits.

Drinking tea in the rain
in the smell of rain
plain tea, plain rain
but, the two of us, full
of expectation: touch me
touch me, feel me

Lips, hands, all
of you, dear darling
touch me, touch me
nicer much nicer
than dreaming
dreaming the past

If you like you can
silently shout a stick
into the sky, climb
and climb higher, higher
sliding looser, looser
down and up

higher higher up
colours around the sun
diving deep into them
wallowing and wrapping yourself
and sparking sparks
from my hands

But stay with me
want me, want to
see and feel me
keep me whole
see me, feel me
touch me, touch me

Cruel potentates

establish 'peace', simply by --


creating wastelands.

The Friesian horses,

stepping in black cloths with hoods --


and snorting with life.

The giant that stopped me
was a wall on the bank
of the big river, far
beyond the palaces

where servants like angels
provided a heaven on earth
for princes and princesses and always

there were naked sages before the gate
begging to warn the people
that they shouldn't have any illusions

There was a small hatch in the wall
which opened for an old hand a moment
giving me an ordinary pebble

It was a stone from paradise
on the other side of the wall
It was smooth. What to do with it?

I am just such a stone, polished
by life and in the future
falling to dust, pity us

stones from paradise
on this side of the wall
where the kings suffer in seclusion
from boredom and the trouble
to keep it that way

It is empty on the Grand Square
The guide tells about the past
His words blow over

Birds above the roofs, white clouds
it takes a long time
until we go for a drink

In the café we cross over
in each other's language
to the streets where we live

and everything is the same
in a different way

We sing along to the songs
of our teenage years and toast
the world that is becoming ours

I stall for time, don't want to let go
of the guide, I'd like take him with me
and show him around my own city

let him see with my eyes
after seeing what he saw
not knowing what he was thinking

We sit in silence,

the silence of our state-room --


echoing silence.

Together we pick

handfuls, there's gold everywhere --


the buttercup gold.

Look at the hippo,

then you'll cease to be amazed --


at human beings.

Just a dancing girl,

yet in all boys eyes she is --


eagerly devoured.

How healthy are you

when you function very well --


in society?

Halfway I chatter chatter
teasingly to make you small
and then

I lick you big again, I smear
the pleasure, mixed
with the evening light

the blades on the ceiling
the long curtains, the yellow
of the walls and the two thick

armchairs of green-brown earth
A warm sigh floats over
our sweat of satisfaction

and then, once more
in me, your name, my name
whispering rhythmically

confused, my hair jumbled up
scents in our blood, and then
you can, then I am

This is our good life:

a whole lot of food has been –


cast before the pigs.

The riches we have

are limited, we want more --


attention, on call.

Every seven weeks

the hairdresser cuts and trims --


me three weeks younger.

I awake with a start, from the heat
as if you were lying heavy on me

I don't make a sound, sleepily I turn
the duvet down. You are not here

The door is locked
it's quiet in the house

I think of Missy in the other room
see her eyes light up in the basket

pricked up at the slightest sound
I make, a sigh

turning my pillow over
the thought of a caress

Being in love may be enough
care and company, I can organise

I shouldn't want everything
and yet I must, I want to

give myself everything
as much as possible

Time can't be measured

in silence, nor can the beat --


be calibrated.

At home, in the sun, I watch
the news intently, I study the photos
the parabola of a mortar
like a shooting star
and the grey ruins after the impact

There are cameras everywhere
I shiver from everything
I do and don't want to know
but I wouldn't know anything
if I didn't know

I read of people
who woke up and
ran to a cellar
their children crying
in the pale morning light

The wounded crawl over debris
scramble past the charred cars
An ambulance drives away
Daily corpses, daily news
with survivors

with a dry mouth
speechless, pale in the sun
in which I follow the news
with my sharp eyes
my cool heart

Tea and gruntsinging

of old Tibetans before --


they get in the air.

The barbarians have come
and they keep coming
century after century

We are polite, we give
them high titles
They give us their laws

in a nice speech
with eloquent words
about civilisation in our wilderness

that we nota bene no longer
need to live like savages
no longer in the wilderness

The barbarians have come
and they keep coming
century after century obedient

to the right and the interests
that threaten them with the strong arm
the hard hand, and a ripped out tongue

Smoke plumes everywhere,

curling up from the chimneys:


comfort, a hot meal.

There the waxing Earth

is low in the sky, lying --


in its starry crib.

The heart and dagger

on the dark jar lure me, ask --


me to pick it up.

To maintain something

as it is, you need to change --


lots of other things.

Clouds are approaching,

they are dark, I seize the days --


The sun is still shining.

You should not do it

secretly: but unnoticed --


just tactically.

The way he behaves,

imitating me, never --


I would act like that!

You more or less know

what kind of day it will be --


Now you colour it.

A silvery sky,

dark and quiet the mountains --


as if sound asleep.

Not grown apart
still familiar, changed
/by each other's attention
Grown along in the other
in who we are

For everything
there can be a time
For slow days
/For closer to home
For constantly creating order
For new projects
and old friends

Occasionally
a message
without a hold
/on whether it fits
in the moment
and falls, falls
into place

Occasionally
the nearness
of our voices
/our most unique selves
talking freely
with open endings
for other times

The door slams the light

closed, my eyes slowly begin --


to see in silence.

The Beast is free, we kiss
outside the wall around
the Beauty of your fidelity

Of course we want to be
good, not stun ourselves
or stay in bed

to dream of big deeds -
figuring them out step by step
within far too many rules

We kiss, we are free
Nothing can hurt us today
We are each other's Hero

Our Love is a big deed
out of sight of the watchtowers
on the wall against our desires

Being objective

is easy, less scary as --


being subjective.

His attention, caught,

and dropped from excitement, then --


she picked up the shards.

The walnut tree falls

slowly, horribly, it groans --


sadly in my ear.

When he concentrates,

his legs begin to tremble –


then he says something.

The tuba stays here,

I can't play it anymore --


this very last time.

The sun hangs on
just above the water
With romantic feelings
the old people look

at us on the rocks
where we read to each other
They don't see the ants
only our young bodies
and in mind, they add the lizards

A foghorn sounds at sea
but there is nothing to see
until suddenly around us
the bathers on the concrete blocks
become who they seemed to be:

ghosts cherishing themselves
in the warmth on their skin
They turn around and wait
sleeping for the sun

Play the waiting game,

scan each other silently:


brainstorming session?

A jar full of worms:

they're trying to creep away --


without a leader.

Collecting little

bits of happiness: fresh bread --


and filling the bath.

Educational

books are given to children --


who are our teachers.