I have a newspaper photograph stuck to the fridge
- two fingers pressed against the spot where the temple
Although a smile’s breaking through the stubble,
fear’s filling the eyes (surfacing)
and all those apologies; sure.
He already knows that one can drink half a glass
Kurt has gone mad, only he doesn’t know it.
I honestly envy him this ignorance.
The word fragility makes me anxious. This deceitful
One can’t escape it. It reveals itself.
I’m clenching my fists hard, watching it lurk.
When I suddenly notice the lightness of my mother, the bird-like
structure of her bones, I feel she’s going to fly away soon
her last role (now she’s going to toss and turn in bed).
I notice her flaccid senile skin, scantily filled
underneath. Fragility - a bitter prediction
of loss and grief. All the rest is just a shell.
our eyes are open, but we can’t see
deeper than the length of a fingernail. but they can see
full of confusion, when we slide on the surface
of life, like silent mercury setting on slabs of glass.
in the morning we’ll take our own fingerprints.
the only thing that separates us from Sunday walks together
is a lens and a glimmer of magnesium in a narrow gap,
the rustle of dead lace, a metal stand.
the rest will be extinguished by stiff silence. we’ll lose it irretrievably
as soon as we open our mouths. a keyhole or a slot.
the picture is clear, it says: death is a place, not a moment in time