mandag, januar 07, 2019

Three New Poems from Hans Lucht



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

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