BEHIND THE DIKE
A little into March summer suddenly
seems all too close:
One evening evening just goes on.
The darkness can’t put out
the white houses in the lyme grass on the dike.
Past and future are each other’s hostages.
The ransom money glitters
in the offshore wind on the far horizon
where no one can come.
So my travels resist
and erase the languages
where I for a while was me.
In all the world I have finally
always stayed at home.