Women can seem a world away, their sheets smelling of “goodnight.”
Setting a small loaf of bread on the table so we don’t notice the distance, don’t feel them
missing.
green grass on the bank of the river
a sea of the stuff – not a scythe in sight
a decade of war, all walls reek of blood
whichever army it is
it’s the same
the clutching at flowers
red, white
Don't say that I will depart tomorrow --
even today I am still arriving.
Look deeply: every second I am arriving
to be a bud on a Spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,
In the corner a cripple with a fan slaps down cards
On the waitress’s cheeks are red blotches
You get only beer and small dry sausage
In an inn whose walls gleam with yellow varnish