In love all is possible. You
grimly drape a tree with roses
and say: it was on this spot and
everyone who passes by shall
know that. Or someone decides: this dead
weight can be borne no longer, I’ll place it
like a stone at the foot of the rock, but
does not walk and breathe the lighter
afterwards. The asphalt that bridges
the river points upwards, on the radio
voices sing ah and oh and on the lorry
in front of me it shamelessly states in the dirt
of days: Now that you’re no longer there
you’re closer than ever. Exactly that. Who
dared with one finger in dust to clear
the way for what’s most steadfast? Soon
the bridge will tilt, the line obediently
will start once more to move, I will pass
by the sewage sludge of Beesley Ltd and
a declaration of love written in mud.
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