The polished dance floor

is completely clear, with ease --


I can run across.

In the morning wind

my thoughts are tinkling clearly --


like a carillon.

Mum wants me happy,

it's her misfortune I'm not –


cooperative.

I missed you a lot,

I miss you, these years of life --


we have sadly missed.

I rule out myself

when reading, so I can hear --


what is being said.

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

The Promised Land does

exist, it is on the map --


of my beating heart.

The tempest tears roofs

away from attic secrets --


devours people's pasts.

She visits my house,

and I am a guide who learns --


what things are special.

It is just like then,

as if I have tumbled down --


in between two times.

A poet fiercely

yearns for a louder silence --


than the other speaks.

Women ****** men,

that's a fact, it is the way –


they are, made of girls.

If only the little animal could
understand everything
no questions unanswered
when it dies

It does not live long enough
and flying is the time
of hundred wonderful times
of playing to die, the time

of asking again and again why
thus, this or that, and how
curiously cutting and pasting
knowledge, screaming

and throwing away angrily
lying down exhausted
and cry, but still
starting over once more

rearrange or discard
the half answers
and go looking
for new data

always ask another question
principally blind
full of confidence
that there will be an answer

In the empty hall,

standing next to her suitcase --


mum waits, and she cries.

Mama told me things,

as a toddler, that I'd like --


to know from her now.

Colourful birthday!

Those who don't know don't know you --


Unfortunately!

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

Creatively I

press five ideas between one --


cheerful, thick cover.

My friend goes, gives me

a rose from the bush, alas --


still in the bud, picked.

I don't know where to,

so I can't go anywhere --


Threatening looks then.

They have braced themselves,

their heels in the solid earth --


their boots full of fear.

Reality flows

out of the war camp, between --


dream and welfare work.

We didn't dare, but could

we have done it anyway?


Just believe in it?

A poem he wants

to write about me. Do I –


have to pose for it?

She likes me, so she

does know human nature, or --


is she just stupid?

In the beginning man created
the thought: everything, mankind
and the earth, is a miracle
with a beginning

and anything that procreates
will die, only the sun
the stars and the stones
had no end, until later

infinity was conceived, the being
of even never having begun

so the rest, actually everything
that is known, the world
will have to perish one day

and, if you dare
to think it out, also
the elusive time

will not last and already
now, nothing is left
but nullity

Trolley cases on the quay, tourists
are part of it when you live here
And Thin John, sitting straight on his bike
every morning three times around the block
in the afternoon on foot the other way around
Mario the Sidewalk Speaker also
is part of it with his dog

Children jumping cannonballs
next to party people in their sloop
Anyone going on vacation
Every two minutes an air-plane
against the wind, low over the houses
Cyclists with their priority face
and the people who live here

The Americans in front of their café
on the corner, where believers sat
when the church with the tower was still there
Red Mia shuffling around
the litter bins, and neighbours
arguing again
They all belong

Here and everywhere the world
is maladjusted, we know
about ourselves and we address
each other: Hello! Good morning
good day here where we are at home
and can only wish that
everything remains different

Progress is the storm

that has risen at the gates --


of Eden's garden.

The music of Bach

is grief comforting people --


with touching beauty.

For days I have been

living without him, but hey --


I cannot skip them.

Ism's promise order.

Is their standard everything --


is for everyone?

The farewell party

is especially festive --


for those who can stay.

Dear grandma, I remember you

and a few of your stories

of the war, the little big

dramas to commemorate



my children only hear them half

because of the bombardment

of images of wars far away

daily in the news



so

we play reality today

to feel, to know

how rending it is



I am the grandma and my daughter

is her mother, the street breaks

after a shot, the air creaks

and we hold our breath

With wide eye shadows,

looking back at all the men:


my perky *******.

I'm longing for him,

to fold himself around me --

wrap me up for good.

The staff members are the worst
they only do their job half way
spying on the chief
and each other, to blow with
the wind when it turns

They take care
of their career, what is good
for them is called good
for the cause, they hold on
and will spoil everything

Even if it's just hearsay
a good story is indestructible
It steals what you want to have
and you black-wash everyone who contradicts
to appear white yourself

while you are the first to cry
'Stop thief!'
with a passing side note
which amplifies the rumours
by contradicting them

The stucco-flowers,

painted over too thickly,


resemble planets.

Collecting little

bits of happiness: fresh bread --


and filling the bath.

Smoke plumes everywhere,

curling up from the chimneys:


comfort, a hot meal.

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

I then thought I knew

what love is, and I said yes --


yes, I do love you.

On a tightrope, you

walk best thinking of it as --


air that carries you.

People celebrate

the astronauts on the moon --


who'd like to join in.

For the Heads of Heads

holdings are a game, marbles –


you swop, so boring!

Creation: spirits

blowing bodies out of flesh --


and bottling themselves.

A night of *******

on sleeping bodies, and then --


the leeches explode.

Resigned he stands firm,

while he keeps smiling bravely --


under his moustache.

Glimmering beauty,

clear and upside down, doubled --


in the little pond.

The wind blows, nothing

happens, maybe unless you --


look to see something.

Angels come flying

in, hear, here must be heaven --


where the ***** sounds.