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February in Rio
Standing in the
balcony's corner—
there is at least half a Jesus
illuminated
Watching inside
I see what's smooth like
a small bird's
eggs, sweet like a
cream cake's crust
forgotten
tiny but
so handsome
transparent angel
coming to life
gloomy angel quietly
emerging
blue and bluer and
the resistance of yellow on top
enter the coral
blow the stone…
Still Winter
The desire of a papyrus leaf
stretched against the windowpane
a memory of weary feet
on an ochre and indigo carpet
sweet smell of fingers that
have just opened an orange—
in the deep mauve of a Nordic
afternoon,
a candle, coffee and kanelbulle
no treat to the soul like
homecoming
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Dansforum
There he is
standing on the dancers'
balcony, in that green
(wooly) light which shivers
the thought of the morning.
Medieval prison dominates
the hill. The city soaking—
waiting for the roof to bloom
silver, the gull to pull down the sky,
he begins the ancient rite; and
if you watch, you'll be enchanted
you'll be lured in the knot anew!
He who never walked this ground
is here again dancing.
Displaced
It was an ugly house
wind beaten rain eaten
she slept and slept and the
night survival kit
opened and she saw
the most wonderful dreams
she touched the most
feathery purples…
A thin wall and a gun hole:
what is missing in the landscape
is the mountain and
the rhapsody of drunken
summer frogs.
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