Sollte Ihr Browser kein Flash unterstützen:

A confession

Since none of this makes sense,
since memory is a rope,
since you and I are blind,
I have to confess:

I walked. When I thought
the earth at my feet
was a road, I walked
till I came to the shore

and spent the night there
listening to water,
exposed to starlight
millions of years old.

2.

Winter was a child burial,
spring a silent meal,
summer
a room full of distractions.

For how many hundred years
have painters turned to a vase like this,
to the light filtering through petals
to describe the world?

Renoir’s and van Gogh’s
simple flowers in a simple bowl.
You are painting now, again,
to fill the space.


3.

In the early days I too
chose silence. It seemed, at first,
more honest than forcing words
after which – more silence.

But these last few nights the door stands
open between  opposite worlds:
one in which I am still your man
and content to be,

but another in which an unnamed boat
untied from the mooring rope,
drifts out of harbour
into uncertainty.