February, from the train window
clouds of pregnant, pearly grey,
a snow shower. Not much later
on the horizon a gash of blue.
What is more riveting than this space
imbued with boundlessness
and the word “away”?
Great illusion of emails, blogs
and faces on a screen, crowds
jostling in bodiless mess,
browsers brow, surf, cruise,
taste the spray, no use,
voices and faces are vacuumed
simply away when you switch off
and what remains? Your cheekbones
in the heat of silence and a gaze
gazing in its own gaze.
This story is so strange, so unique,
so utterly convincing in its own
being a freak.
From the silence of the horizon
you bounce now into the busyness
of the page, or you were already
lost in both. After silence and word
your belly burns, like with fire and ice,
fingering the page maybe you are
Bless my nothingness.
Maybe I am already in the afterlife.
But spring is vast and earthy.
And I am so utterly conquerable,
a bit of a whiff of wild garlic
will be enough.
And I will soon look for frolics
in the splendid inconsequential