The sky and the sea
synonyms in these parts.
In the abstract, reality splashes.
No hills around; volcanic outbursts
of drowned history have flattened
the bottom of the imaginable.
When it rains, the missing centuries
surface in every puddle
and stare at you with their bubble eyes.
Somewhere out there, the white finitude
of the Dover Cliffs
where night learns the language
of moss on milestones.
Somewhere out there, the sands
of Scheveningen where rainwater
smells like an eternity
Here, the sanguine sunshine has sunk
into wet corn-dog grass, and the stars
enjoy an uncontested freedom of the fall
through the rainbow layers of time.
The Border Mouse
He circumnavigates no man’s land
like a neurotic sun. If a boundary-line
is drawn across a river, he is a fish;
if it cuts through a bog, he turns
into a frog. Otherwise he is the storm
of the moment, a mole
gnawing at the roots of trust.
He smells seeds of darkness
and poppy lips, sunburst oranges
and a crimson lava out of the mouth of rage.
He smells the ever-widening crevices
of Europe, and he smells the time
when he’ll unhide himself.
When money blossoms, he smells it.
An artist of nuisance, he suddenly paints himself
into our peripheral vision. He is
the rust-coloured evening of our lives.
Does he exist in the sense that time exists?
When the last decades, in their perfumed sheaths,
are safely buried, will history expose
his worn-out shadow?
Making room for empty spaces
– or unmarked graves –
is easy. Nothingness, like greatness,
emerges from a mouse hole of eternity.
An infinity mirror holds us all.
As for history, it disregards its margins
and has no imagination.