Sunday 24 June 2012

Poem by the Dutch writer
Alfred Schaffer


And then the curtain rises, the small word EXIT reassures us.
Once again you concentrate on the wrong things, at a distance you even
make me think of someone else. With that cigarette dangling from your mouth,
a travel guide in your left hand, your weapon in your right. Suspicious, so

much attention to detail. Is all that reverence in place? How far does your
echo carry? Our urge to look exceeds all expectations, but that’s
nothing for you to worry about, it’s not your fault, you standing there
like that, the distance exposed: the image can’t be thought away.

Was something due to happen? Or is it already over, the finger on the trigger,
the convoluting smoke – you think to yourself I can’t have done that, I
simply can’t have done that. All that empty suspicion, shaped of the
sort of stuff, in a past long-gone, that dreams were made of.

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