Tuesday, 12 November 2019


The Street Cleaners

Talking with a friend

Downtown outside late at night

Blur of passersby

You don’t see what is

Happening but someone takes

The moments away

I think I’m one of the street cleaners myself: I sweep the past into my novels, not as it happened, but tidying it up until it fits the story.

The Headhunter of Hands

At night

I go down to the lake

And search for your hands

I find a certain antiquity

In bones tinkling under the moon

Stone flowers amid lacustrine trees

In the blue-baited dawn

The bandicoots return to the shaggy black moss

Growing quietly on the north side of a tree

They stuff what is left

Of your hands

Into their pouches.

Lacustrine trees! blue-baited dawn! I’d like to go there to finish the business and be happy.

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