I knew what a vise was
but not the word for it in Dutch.
Still, I figured I’d find whatever it was
“on the work bench
on the third floor,
just under the roof.”
I knew I was looking for
something with a screw.
Piet wanted it to fix a clock.
Not a big clock,
a little clock.
A travel alarm,
like what my Grandma would’ve had
in the ’80’s.
It was a gift from an aunt
and the winder was off.
But first I had to find that screw.
Hail knocks down the blossoms,
but have you seen those stones in the sun?
Flowers take the purse on points.
Why go anywhere
when you can see it all
already, the whole way
up and the view from the
top? The circling stone,
the light, the river
and the gargoyles.
The sun sets sooner
here below.
Withdraw, man, unknock!
Take your meat at safety’s table.
This wraps it all up neatly,
doesn’t it –
the hook that lets you
off the hook
?
I’ve run on ahead of where my
mind was, and am looking around now
at
You’ll know where you are when
you’ve been there, but until then
Standing still I can feel it all catching up –
or is it something new coming on?
Nothing, nothing, a deer’s eyes
emerge from the fog.
Which was dragging things
out to the bitter last moment,
watching possibilities fly
like cocks crowing
unhinged, remembering
Nietzsche said, The deed
is everything, and that
was in ’92 when I was
going to meet him in the ring
that very day!
When you’re here I
want you to be in a
bright, clear world.
Briefly. For briefly
is all I can manage.
After briefly comes
the usual. Do you
hear it in that word
usual?
How slow and cloudy
it is, clearly
not knowing
what it ever
will be about.
A question-mark of flowers
circles the tree.
The gardener could not
help but ask.
As I dress she asks,
Another day at the
wood-chopping farm?
And yes, it does begin
in a kind of wood
where trees pose a problem,
physically or metaphorically,
and you wouldn’t want one
landing wrong in either case.
My chopping, of course,
being but a form of bewilderment,
won’t bring one down, but
you’re right to note, dear,
my attire would well serve
the man who could.
How is it to hunger
for words others can’t say?
They can’t say them
for they wouldn’t be true,
and who doesn’t bleed
for a bit of integrity?
But they want to say them,
to fill the hunger.
Thus does one hunger beget
another, and eventually
a famine.
Utrecht Journal 