One More Saturday

The Record Store

 

I brush my fingers over the album covers

 

of music composed by people I will never know.

 

Then I hear you say ‘hello’.

 

Then I lift my head and see you with your new boy,

 

whom I know

 

has the worst taste in music.

 

I say ‘hello, how are you’.

 

And we talk a while before you leave again.

 

With my face bare,

 

I return to brushing my fingers over album covers.

 

Then I pause when I find the cover of a band,

 

you once told me you would never stop loving.

 

Spring 2013

The thoughts of other people

Clouds of young snow fall unexpectedly from the branches of trees

 

As there faintness is nurtured by the afternoon sun.

 

This reminds me that somewhere

 

A man with briefcase in his left hand and single beer on his breath

 

Is walking through a park with trees

 

Thinking about his daughter’s teething.

 

Bern, Autumn 2012

A Broken Morning

A Black cardigan

Holds your shoulders to a broken warmth.

Next to you  goes by without flesh held truth.

From the balcony

You hear the birds

Love their song

And abandon it as quickly as people do.

Spring, 2011

Laying on your bed while you paint

I lay on your bed

Listening to (___) tell a mob of jackals about his empty wine bottles, that mean so much.

It’s warm though my toes are cold.

My blood is thin.

I can hear your brush moving over the piece of wood you’ve chosen.

Its portraits you so often paint.

Your lines sometimes giving them their loneliness

your colours sometimes making them loved;

In your strokes I wait.

Writing about intimacy

I find it difficult to write about intimacy.

 

The best I can do is to write about

 

time spent at the ocean

 

and how

 

fucking with the radio on is seldom a good thing.

 

Spring 2013

The Markthalle at Midday

The horizon of the service girl,

 

with her waist pressed against the unoccupied Bar,

 

is cast by the line of people shuffling toward the food counter

 

Beneath the autumnal conversation and soft steps

 

a song plays.

 

It plays in unison in every daylight bar

 

i’ve ever sat in.

 

A song to which nobody drinks or touches one another.

 

The service girl is tired from rest.

 

She turns away from the counter, to which nobody comes

 

and the continuous line of people,

 

to wipe down liqour bottles on the shelf behind.

 

She takes down each bottle by the neck

 

unhurriedly

 

to occupy her hands for the longest time possible.

 

Still, she watches her horizon

 

in the Bar’s grand mirror.

 

She thinks about ‘when they’re going to fix

 

the cracked blue and grey floor tiles’

 

that remind her so much of Malta

 

though she has never been there.

 

Then she thinks about meeting someone.