There is water here. Flowing nowhere else but here. Cheats the hands as it pleases, silver for instance in another’s charge, without support or sleep, finally frittering itself away in its own pattering, and so open for the next-best request for patience: Just about washing the crossing air.
Pomegranate tree. Will be our report. Thus bestirs itself soon. Has decided for a length. Let go in a wisp. Wants to embody itself there, be able to reach back to its own fruit. Whereby east reveals itself as wind and not the beginning of speech. Daylight is in transition. Finishing touch doesn’t materialize. In the same space we resemble. First each other. From pure distraction. We then go in our form of appearance. There is silence, certainly. Village joy also. And compact Fusilier tulips. Yet by a wide wisp, what we report.
I play open the lids, prick-up-my-ears too. I play getting dressed. I play look-out-the-window with the chair. What was sung was almost birch, no eyebrows, not my hand. I have to tell my father.
From In Verbrachter Zeit. kookbooks, 2014.