The nursing home collapses so slowly into the lake
you cannot understand
the alphabet of flowers, it has too many letters
The trees’ shadow games, the system of paths, the loose gravel under the feet
Sometimes we see the dead between our fingers
Why don’t you get it? It never ends well
the heart cannot live by waste sorting alone, it wants more
The white knight is talking backwards
The dull, cool underside of the leaves, suddenly we’re backstage
I’m sliding helplessly to the edge
No hands are as wasteful as a woman’s who loves for the very first time
Well, maybe there was no love then
maybe it was just your hip’s sharp silhouette against the night lamp
There is a place we need to be before six o’clock and it’s super important