Poems
Instinctea
and trembling, with dark doggedness, yield
to the laws of the Eternal Escape
coming to a halt only seldom
breathing in the thousands of smells
catching with their erect ears the wind’s howling improvisations
exchanging their glowing looks and starting again
Perhaps then it will be worth it, in the unbroken silence
of the insured flats, to read the yellowed letters
Once the ridiculously ancient habits of our hounds melt
into the alert collective instinct
and the faraway places fuse into a piercing track
of thousands of isolated loners
Perhaps then it will be worth it to tear the old sheets
and, in the rain of falling shreds, to decipher new salutations
Once the hounds appear within sight of our panel towns
and, with their enigmatic, poised calm, lie down in expectation
at times giving a wild bark just for the echo’s sake
Perhaps then it will be worth it
to walk out onto the balconies
and see that they see
That is talk hitting
at the bottom
of hardly hearable
rattles and thrums.
Hardly hearable,
yet persistent. They push through,
intruding upon me from below,
rubbing off on me, lightly
yet very, very lightly
they
keep hurting.
As if something frayed
between the floor and the ceiling,
somewhere in places where they cannot yet be told apart.
Particularly that high-pitched,
almost clear,
at times intermittent
quiver.
That is talk hitting.
It might be women chatting downstairs.
Alive
yet I don’t want to think of it
why I always cling to one word
some such word
which makes me founder at last
back in the meadow
and a black and white cat watched me from the grass
It was the death of me
Suddenly I saw that all led toward her
and that I
as she sat there
couldn’t avoid her
and heading elsewhere
just because of her
but still in that transparent vain manner
elsewhere again back again
Or slap-bang
one of those words again
something else starts lurking in its stead
which I never ever should have intrigued with
of another word
There is no another
And they all are skilled in reminding each other of the fact
that none of us living
would not want to know for real
much less to live through
what could also mean
Until it runs away from me
Like then
Lids
(and when Bodhidharma caught his eyelids
drooping of their own accord)
bounces back
and shatters, still in doubt
still hoping for a moment it could be restored
already a second lid in five days
it broke out
already a second teapot with an opening that
I have nothing to cover with that
is aiming at me that
And the shards on the floor
A message must be written in distinct letters
Possibly even retraced
undone
it could hardly be more conclusive
And even if there were no staggering slip
Things come
It came my way, just like the water tap
Torn pages
Tomorrow’s meeting there was no reason to think about
I only touched and trusted
green tea, time and time again
through a twist of the second and even of the third infusion
Do I understand that I am pretending?
If unsustainability, then unseizable
Some forthcoming hours will pass
I think it will get dark, the light will not last
The evening may be expected
Tinkle of coiled leaves
a fine tinkling
Crunch of the ceramics, a second lid already
may come
