“Maria: Mundharmonika gegen Gänse mal Geranien, bitte die Gaumen, dann die Betten, die Betretenen als Gabeln, mehr als Schlund, hab ich gedacht, drehen, nicht als Pfahl, so barock kommt Peter Paulus als Helfer und filtert unser Gedankengelenk, Gelenk beigebetete Martha, aber es hilft nicht, spricht nicht.” Sitzt im Gefängnis.
“Ach so.”
“Waren mal blosse Füsse im Gelände, weisst du noch, Maria?”
“Kenn dich nicht.”
Thank you, she said, for the trance, elation.
For the click click click of words falling into place.
For the clack clack clack of the knitting loom.
Breath is a silver fog. Birds build palaces.
Cross the lake. Join the jungle.
I see it!
Is that not what you said?
Let me try again. There was a city I left behind.
It drowned in rain.
Insect girls lived in jars, buildings walked on stilts.
The name had a bomb in it, had a mum in it.
Had a bay in it, had a bye in it…
Does that ring a bell? No?
Fragments of a word.
Brob. Ding. Nag.
I beg your pardon? How many languages do I speak?
Two, she said, pointing to her eyes
and her heart. Just two. And you?
I read poetry.
It remembers the possibility of a living which is not far,
but it’ s not my life.
I quit reading.
Already I am in the field,
a field, which I think to look at from outside,
but I am alreading inside.
I wake up and I am sad.
The day: a field carved with duties, time traps, frustrations.
The newspaper leads me into a world that is mine and not mine.
I have to doubt what I am reading, otherwise I can not stand to be part of this world.
