I'm not moving straight,

I am a piece of something --


bigger that rotates.

It is nice to dream,

if only you walk with me --


starwalking with me.

Silvery glaucous

leaves sail away from the trees --


Little crescent moons.

I need strange hard hands

to plough me, tearing apart --


your roots inside me.

She has packed her things,

she is the moon with the sun –


shining in her eyes.

I didn't learn
to live, I just
got used to it

and try to be myself
with friends who don't make demands
and are available

when I come or shout
that I'm lonely
but with you it's different

Sometimes I don't know afterwards
whether we were connected
and then I get lost

in my thoughts, so
there is no contact
and I must embrace you

feel the firmness
of your body
to believe in us

The tempest tears roofs

away from attic secrets --


devours people's pasts.

On the horizon

the sun is humming, turning --


the pink fingers pale.

By chance found again:

the butterfly box, the pins --


in circles of dust.

Trolley cases on the quay, tourists
are part of it when you live here
And Thin John, sitting straight on his bike
every morning three times around the block
in the afternoon on foot the other way around
Mario the Sidewalk Speaker also
is part of it with his dog

Children jumping cannonballs
next to party people in their sloop
Anyone going on vacation
Every two minutes an air-plane
against the wind, low over the houses
Cyclists with their priority face
and the people who live here

The Americans in front of their café
on the corner, where believers sat
when the church with the tower was still there
Red Mia shuffling around
the litter bins, and neighbours
arguing again
They all belong

Here and everywhere the world
is maladjusted, we know
about ourselves and we address
each other: Hello! Good morning
good day here where we are at home
and can only wish that
everything remains different

I don't know where to,

so I can't go anywhere --


Threatening looks then.

The pebble: I shrank,

it grew into a mountain --


with me on top now!

I'm scared by a foot-

print in the sand, exactly --


my foot does fit in.

Am I unworldly?

What kind of world is it then?


This one, where I am?

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There is evidence

of what I had and did: signs --


of my existence.

I don't know how much

longer, but now, I'm with you --


now, I laugh with you.

I allure you, dancing
slowly around you right
through the laser rays
my eyes don't let you go

I get far enough into you
not to go with you right away
We'll meet tomorrow
and then in a week

At home, my parents are waiting
with their dreams about me
In the city, a career awaits
and in my body everything awaits

the next step
It is the art of balancing
to be myself
and to know what I want

He's vulnerable,

just look at the craquelure --


over grandpa's eyes.

Order in the bowl:

little fish at the bottom --


big ones at the top.

Philosophy does

not help you to become learned --


but to be virtuous.

True love may be tired,

not capable, not obliged --


just sweet, a sweetheart.

You don't have to say a thing
not even my name
we walk a bit

from embrace to embrace
securing all the preceding
deep in our belly

Maybe there is too much
to discuss, but soon
half words will be enough

and we will kiss each other
with poetic sentences
full of love in their gaps

like our whole life is
an agenda full of gaps
filled with friends

care and roses
experiences kept deep
in our belly without words

For children's sorrows

there's mama, as a hanky --


which doesn't cry itself.

My ear is colour positive
the red rim boils
from your words, a bright
light bursts from the auricle
and hangs in front of my mouth

in front of my held breath
my lips not quite open
my thoughts unspoken

my look colour negative
with well blooded brains
crossed arms, glowing
with suspicion and defiance
with the desire to attack

You won't get away with it
you won't get away with it
you won't get away with it

Something isn't right, if

you live more than usual --


during holidays.

The fortress: I roll out my mat
in the silence of sleeping cicadas
The wind is warm, time crawls
with the sun to Naples

It's all in my head
high above the noise of life

of crowded streets and shops
where the money never rolls far
looks are leery, kisses are fleeting
and hands are groping

It is not right
I start a storm
sweep chairs from the terraces
slam doors and blow dust

like night through the city
Guy-wires and bars rattle
a dog whines and a cat
glares at the perch

in the water of the harbour, wild
from my rebellious thoughts
that lie down after all
between the snails on my mat

I am not as good

as I can be. I'm afraid --


of God. Pray for me.

She took her clothes off,

unconcerned whether she might --


want to hide something.

The past is a rope,

a tangled ball of knots, play --


with it, like a cat.

Squat down, knees to chin,

and your arms tight around them --


safe like angel's wings.

No fast traffic here
no high steel and concrete
in the streets, but
walkable space

The sun draws attention
away from us, towards the light
on the black facades on the harbour
the white cornices and red tiles:

the picture for the photos
of the tanned tourists
on the terrace of the tanhouse
who walk into our gardens

as if we live here
in an open-air museum
and should praise
their silly insolence

as a decent interest
But we can live with it
The visitors walk around
in a parallel reality

and we have real neighbours
a wide sky, the wide water
and the green island
We can breathe here

as the wood breathes
in the seasons
as the wind breathes
in the grass

Some people blame me

for my normal, daily face:


You should have a rest!

The sitting room makes

me feel like I have to walk --


in a gliding way.

Dying means little

without fantasy, else it's --


about everything.

If only there was

a sea for my stream of tears --


a chest to cry on.

A page, a glimmer

of truth, rustlingless silent --


and then wind again.

Trees along the road

continue to grow as if --


nothing had happened.

Flashes of lightning

briefly reveal the garden --


a flower at night.

I'm a sane person,

but out of love I believe --


in some afterlife.

She explains the world

to me, it is a stinking --


pile of waste and scrap.

Empty the meeting room
The chairs lined up again
The screen in the corner still spouting
the latest news reports

I lie down on the round table
stretch myself out and surrender
to pleasure, caressed
laziness, oh, don't

think of your hands now
not of decisions taken
plans and action points and
not of the noise outside

the air rippling around
the boxing hustle
the profits bouncing
across cartwheels of hurry

the life of our excesses
of deeds, although I prefer them sometimes
to words, although I prefer them sometimes
because each life does count

I make up enough endings
in my mind, knowing
that life continues
with little metabolism
of what ceases to exist
but it is difficult

to take it lightly
while you feel it happening
My heart does want to breathe
wisdom, but it needs blood
to feel the warmth of love
flowing in me, in and out

receiving and giving
around the earth, gathering
in the sea, the salmon swim
back and forth, it snows and rains
the hazel is in bloom
and will give a basket full of nuts

Snowflakes are floating

between the blossoming trees –


like flower petals.

The empty chair may

not be my father's chair, but --


I do miss him now.

Out of my kindness

I do things big, learn from me:


small is good enough.

She's upset: I didn't

look at her for a second --


but at the roses.

Being impatient

is just a matter of time:


having too much time.

Forever new books

by new writers, for a dream --


they are immortal.

On a tightrope, you

walk best thinking of it as --


air that carries you.