for several days now, the pages in my diary have been blank.
at the edges of the scale, over the deeds of confession and silence, a sense of dread washes over. in this foolish November, you test old dreams: is it possible, like a haiku, to be nothing, abbreviated, ordinary? and not always reaching the flickering links of meaning, but merely in purity and without any intention, lingering in the realm beyond good and evil: i have nothing to say, and i say it; that is poetry. just like that. the kettle in the corner is diligently boiling.
the clay cup warms your palms. the caps of young birch boletes push aside the bedding of dry needles. in the dew drops, particles of the sun are enclosed. you breathe. the golden surface of the tea ripples.
the beak of the invisible woodpecker taps in rhythm with your shattered heart. the fear of bark beetles spreads through the veins of the pines faster than thought.

the truth about you surpasses your existence. 

summer has begun like an orange in a child’s weak fingers. this sticky summer denies itself once again, and there is no alphabet for it, only the friction of image against afterimage, stone against sun, things against cause. but that tale about the elements is exaggerated. the sea gives you nothing. to worry is just a verb. you are not a wanderer consumed by the boundless expanse, you are not afflicted with chronic island-mania. often you are tormented by fatigue from what you have seen, from the exultation of light over matter, and then you want to finish off this light like a fish against the edge of the deck. and the blind days, which you immediately know you will never remember.
you dream of a book in which you will plunge with the dust of time into the melting pot of childhood, embedding yourself in the narrative of life. Into the warm heart of darkness.

poetry hatches from the cuckoo’s egg and opens its hungry beak. she has prophetic eyes, and she observes at the same moment both the road downwards,
and
the surrounding heavens.
makes a deal with time.
inside it, things don’t break, they simply cease to exist.