Thursday, 24 January 2013

Poem by the Dutch writer Eva Gerlach


CRUMBS

Whatever’s whole we fail to see, it is
too big for us, non-fitting, it won’t go
inside our head

but what is chopped up, frittered, pounded fine,
crumbs, puréed, blown to dust, disintegrating –

all that is split up sticks in us for good.

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