I trail my suitcase along the platform, the weight of the air’s mechanism at the small of my back. In the old country a man would arrive from afar, give each child a whistle, and parade them through the village, whistling. What is this fury of forms, boarding trains, handing out whistles to children? Dear spigot, dear filtering film of rubber, if this world is the only world, Anaximander will go on shaking his sieve, persistently sifting with an ear to the ignition— striker of matches, your scent of cloves, your fire rides the circumference and a vortex gyrates at the center. There is the vermiform signature: you may eat of this tree. Now the glorious propinquity, now the rupture. A village elder goes on debating with his god. Who can tell if he receives a reply? In the old stories, if you whistled, the light would come to you out of curiosity.
Letter Spoken in Wind
Today we walked the inlet Nybøl Nor remembering how to tread on frozen snow. Ate cold sloeberries that tasted of wind—a white pucker— spat their sour pits in snow. Along the horizon, a line of windmills dissolved into a white field. Your voice on the phone, a gesund auf dein keppele you blessed my head. Six months now since I've seen you. There are traces of you here, your curls still dark and long, your woven dove, the room you stayed in: send your syllables, I am swimming below the tidemark. Words shed overcoats, come to me undressed, slender-limbed, they have no letters yet. It is the festival of lights, I have no candles. I light one for each night, pray on a row of nine lighthouses.