~The white sun, training alone, runs the long distance to death’s blue mountains. ~We need to exist with the finely printed grass and cellar-laughter. ~The sun lies low now. Our shadows are goliaths. Soon shadow is all.II The orchid blossoms. Oil tankers are gliding past. And the moon is full.III Medieval fortress, a foreign city, cold sphinx, empty arenas. ~Then the leaves whispered: a wild boar plays the organ. And the bells all rang. ~And the night streams in from east to west, traveling in time with the moon.IV A dragonfly pair fastened to one another went flickering past. ~The presence of God. In the tunnel of birdsong a locked door opens. ~Oak trees and the moon. Light and mute constellations. And the frigid sea.
From the Island, 1860
I One day as she rinsed her wash from the jetty, the bay’s grave cold rose up through her arms and into her life.Her tears froze into spectacles. The island raised itself by its grass and the herring-flag waved in the deep.II And the swarm of small pox caught up with him, settled down onto his face. He lies and stares at the ceiling.How it had rowed up through the silence. The now’s eternally flowing stain, the now’s eternally bleeding end-point.
