Four poems from Klaus Høeck's Heptameron

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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

glossy paper from my own childhood.

For all of Heptameron (383 pages!) go to this website