Shall we go out, watch the ships sink in the storm | or stay at home, keep dry, chill | play with the cat? | Where is the moment? | How may we | place it? | Here it is, you say, but I | left some time ago, seduced | by the ghosts of other old women, before | our teeth dropped, our limbs | withered and buckled | our sexual parts | lost their flowers and were no longer | horse or bull or the clear | ring of sky in the clouds, a lone | bird flying at such height, slowly and lazily | as it seemed, and too | distant to identify | Certain important | questions are dying in us | Where can we | store this fire? | Keep it on hold, so it may burn us at | precisely | the right instant? | My heart is too | full of junk, failed | poems | old records, we can’t | leave the flames there, and if we | can’t keep things in the heart, what | then? | Marzipan, Marzipan of the golden eyes, fur of the white | of the first | snow of the Norwegian winter… | Leave the B by the C, it’s the familiar way | Untouch | more and more | wires | disconnected | lying on the grass, the man | up the pole | as if scouting | for an enemy or Devon | Will we be able to see | the sailors crying, do you think? | We wonder this | I love you, you say | I have a silence for you | Here it is


(this poem, August 2013)