Here the day is already far ahead of me.

Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert. I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Here the day is already far ahead of me. Like sitting on the palm of your hand watching your uvula break the horizon.

Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. For every layer of meaning in the stones.

Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. Who was it that wrote: This is what my dreams looked like at the time. The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind.

Your diamonds shine from my mouth. A shy room, an intimate room.

Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

And another day:

Then someone tried his hand at literary debate.

I kissed a winter’s darkness of night. Behind the trees. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Sentences are a desert. It is every single street view filled with our arms and legs. I had fallen: a spotted sleep, a deep melancholy through the sorrow of the landscape. I love to wake up and see you wake up. In the images, I saw enemies and birds and blank papers and rain.

The pain sailing on streams of gold in dawn’s canopy of light.

Nothing but the books. I read newspapers, in oblivion. Glass hands. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. The wall around the words. You wanted to say something, you kept silent. Days. Weeks. Friends. The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste. In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. You lost the thread, but come follow my wet crystals. When I woke up, I was certain: It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. I get the day going, writing quietly.

Nothing is deeper than the skin. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind. Impossible to get in there. Was the wind really blowing? Now I am writing again on the quiet. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

The mind of the sun. Dancing, playing, listening. Like reading forgotten newspapers. The seagulls in the streaming water and up on the sky. The someone listened to the woods.

I could not phrase those sentences. Of other cities, other worlds. Desertion. Assertion. When I read a boring poem, I read a boring poem and it struck me: The summer was quite all right after all, autumn and winter. Who was it that wrote: From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths. Notes. Descriptions. This is how you answered.

The lights lighted. When I woke up, I was certain: Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. Nothing is deeper than the skin?

My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days. There is something about places brim-full of traces of things that have happened. Now I am writing again on a column of poems.

We thought of the quivering of the northern lights in secrets inside, inside, inside each other. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep.

Nothing is deeper than the skin? It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. The country is crumbling, crumbling. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind. Days. Weeks. Friends.

The air and the songs of the Earth. The cohesions in your lips, in your eyes and the brittle landscape, to reach all the way out there.

We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet.

When I read a boring poem, I read a boring poem and it struck me: The summer was quite all right after all, autumn and winter. Every morning I wake up and think: wow! What beautiful eyes.