Through the hole in the fence. In the images, my language had become hostile: Somewhere in there is a small sparkling green. Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light. Where does ruined language want to go? Through the hole in the fence. I flick through the pages of some random book. And another day: Behind the diamonds. The someone listened to the woods. I get the day going, writing quietly.

Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun. What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings. Was I? Here the day is already far ahead of me. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked. We, we.

A shy, an intimate room. It was after the trees, even after the movement of my fingers through light, through skin, through landscape after landscape. A bare piece to chew on, that is what poetry is like down to the smallest details. Then I saw the third night in the stillness, in the distance. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. And down through the skin to the bones, glittering-glittering, and through the bones until darkness merges with marrow.

They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs At that part of the silence of night. The glittering secrets inside the stones. Something opened up. I, you, it. A shy room, an intimate room. Deserted.

Days. Weeks. Friends.

The books rested around the coffee. I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. The light followed me sharply, and I drew on the language dancing in the inner landscapes. And another day: Was it the forests you came from? Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line.

The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. You answered like that. When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth.

Letter in April. Me, me. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. I’ve stalled on the threshold of the day. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. Over the rubble. Around things.

We thought about words we could not forget. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future.

Mørket kaldte vi bare for mørket mens vi lod dets tæppe trække sig ind i dagen som en brusende sky fyldt med den skrøbeligste alvor. Her er dagen allerede langt foran mig.

De lyser indefra mørket sammen med et par tøvende sætninger og den dyrebare uro, jeg fik foræret i gave engang ved et tilfælde.

Pludselig en nat faldt der giraffer ud af dine drømme. Stolen jeg sad på knirkede i solen. Uden grund. Her er dagen allerede langt foran mig. Stigen op til sætningen: Det var mig, der ringede efter politiet. Sletterne trak helt ud til havet som trak videre i himlen som trak i øjnene som en let tåge.