A thermometer that broke free
of the jetty in July
re-emerged, caught by the ice
in March and looking quite astonished.
Half-past two. Rain against the roof.
I have only turned the first few pages
in this new night’s dark book.
There is a lot to read
There are pages
that I will never get to open
Incomprehensible pages. Pages without end.
Pages full of water, streaming water
that thoughtlessly reflect the morning light.
The still dark waters
from bogs and marshland
water with a bitter pharmacist’s scent
scents of eel-grass, bog bilberries and bog myrtle
Water with a bitter scent from those dead
that sank into the dark-brown depths of time
and hardened into darkened blocks of wood
I am reading from night’s dark heavy book.
And it has no last page
I am reading from night’s heavy book.
It is streaming, this text is cold,
as if it came from melting snow
Yes, everything would fast be gone from here.