OSPGPSPSPA-X
First Sunday in Advent.
It is
not the
events that are called
miracles that
are so hard
to grasp. More that
i have to
create them
myself each time by
transforming the
events into
miracles by virtue of my belief.
OGPAPFPAPA-X
Second Sunday in Advent.
It is smoking
from winter’s
crystal. My words freeze
solid to
the paper
like the tongue to iron, like
the soul to
its body.
Can the heat from two paraffin
wax candles
separate them again.
Or the heart’s secret fire?
OSPAPSPSPG-X
Fourth Sunday in Advent.
The clouds look
like boiling
lead; tracks dark with snow.
But then the
light of creation
is also black deep down
within because
this act
calls for so much light that
everything else
darkens slightly,
when a human child is born.
OGPAPGPGPG-X
Christ’s birthday. I do not
go to church.
Consider
instead a reproduction of
Meister
Francke’s
‘Christmas Night’. I don’t know
much about births;
only about the
spiritual (they hurt). But the
sky is as
red as the
No comments:
Post a Comment