The sea’s purple at Piraeus
8 September 1994
To Acedia
ID’s (fragment)
When I can escape my words no longer
A man eats an apple in the park
When I walk to the sea

1. She is where she saw him.
(A sideways glance
at the opposite lane.)

The case by his right foot.
A coat over the arm.

He asks: was her hand ever here?
He sits down on the upright case.

A hand burns on her abdomen
and a hand burns above
the revolving car tyre in the sun.

She wipes spittle from her lips.
She brushes sunlight from his suit.

2. When on her knee a filter cigarette
sticks into the opening of a matchbox,
she sticks a hand into her sweater’s V-neck.
Her fingertips on the collarbone.

A pin on his suit. (Milk from the searchlight.)
Socks with fine stripes in. Thumb edge under a brooch.

A smile in a hankie kneaded to a yawn.

Nothing escapes her.
No one escapes her.

A tea towel with no motif.
A loaf with no oven.

3. I think those birds are just right for a boat trip like this
she says and on the railing
her hand masks the graffiti.

She has a dress round her neck.
The make-up’s the day before’s.
A gust of wind and her ear lobe’s released.

His mouth seldom tastes
of the bunk in the hull.
Birds are tapping against the frame.

AuthorErik Lindner
2018-08-21T17:22:45+00:00 February 23rd, 2013|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 88|0 Comments