she lies in darkness waiting
my eyes fingers lips are searching:
her pale cheeks in my hands ...
i breathe cold hazy fever on her
a tori amos song, a shaky earthquake voice
and the everlasting journeys
of earth sun and moon
–a language in riddles and rhymes–
bring my lady back to me
 

raining olives

and so she’s gone.
the house hugs him,
blankets him with silence.
all clocks hold their tongues,
the sofa’s stopped its sighing,
shelves stare empty, robbed
of wedding pictures, souvenirs.

another summer evening
dresses in pale yellow;
the mourning has been done,
dusk already breathes relief:
he need not be alert,
he’ll sleep, no longer worried
what’s going on behind his back.

it might as well be snowing angels,
raining olives, fleshy and green.

inspired by the painting A Fair and Right Distribution by Walter Gabrielson.
 

tomorrow's yesterday

holding your hand
my breathing is a love whisper
lost in the darkness
stolen moments
borrowed time
like sitting on those wooden chairs
at a black disinterested table
trying to look like marble
in a viennese café
with faces blown by, blurring
blurring
like a lipstick smear
of last year's lovers
 

night boat to lido

all the warmth i’ve known today
has left me; 
it’s as distant as
the lights of san marco.

we dive into the mist
that hides nothing,
only night and water,
a procession of phantom gondolas.

he says i look like a frozen angel
shivering a venetian andante;
he’s scared to kiss me
and stir my wings to life.

 winter sunrise, san donà

the land wears
the bitter jewels of frost,
a diadem of barren trees,
the sun its only
blood-red gem.
 

scheveningen strand

a polar wind gets lost
in a sickly seagull's 
frosted feathers
the sun wears
seven veils of haziness
topping off a vague dutch sky
flour white sailboats
–unreal and soundless– 
aim at the horizon
like a nightblind dusk
the tide is low
and the waves
surrender meekly
at my feet
 

winter night

the rain fell on us
like leftover drops
from a cloud 
past its prime
in a park where 
making love would 
come naturally 
on a summer night

but summer had left for 
a willing northern bride 
and his return was still 
a winter's grasp away 
 

october morning

sunlight is dripping
through the yellow roofs
of startled morning trees

a sly street abandons
a waking village
to lie in hiding
among amber cornfields
until the night unfolds
its brittle shadows
 

walkabout

it's not the heat
but the absence of sound
that strikes us
out here where nothing's changed
since tjukurpa, the dawning 
of all time.
the sharpness of shadows, 
the wordless lament 
of many-fingered trees:
this grim beauty 
will haunt us
in dreams of the rainbow snake.
 

leaving

stars fall into my hands
from my private sky
each murmuring a bedtime story
but they would never tell
of that kiss not meant to be given,
let alone received

there's a stain on the carpet, 
beside the mattress, barely visible
23rd birthday wine, a cheap red
my friend's tipsy apologies still echo 
from wall to naked wall

i take down a bunch of
dried roses, stifled by dust,
their message alive as ever, 
their smell brushed off long ago
together with deserted cobwebs

shadows of every page i read
lie heavy on the shelves, 
the rustling of clothes has not yet 
died in the closet,
words i never used in poems
have gathered in corners, 
begging me to take them along

there must be room
in one of my boxes
 

dotty

she had these mocking eyes
not even she was ever
on the safe side
especially not on friday nights
in stimulating circles

under the brim of her hat
stormclouds gathered, along with
crazy midgets foreshadowing
a sudden clash of thunder
which always came

how no-one stirred that night
in the long silence between
the ends of a late rainbow
and jokes fainted, fatigued
at the back of fashionably 
sullen minds

while she sat
with half a grin at her
reflection in the curved back 
of a polished spoon