violently falling between the elm trees
his hands holding a fluttering sparrow
actual words come out of a tunnel
gone, among clouds
white sky on his knee
how many loopy mornings
outside his body, beyond speculation
he speaks and I lick the tears
that tease his cheeks with grace
ferns, solace, fool, relief
worldly and much more
open the realm, to the back of the word
naked beside the other
soft air – a sound
they would talk, that’s all
seen for the first time
enveloped in kindness
he would see further
Roos Hermsen 