بكر

from behind the moon
contemplating
three cauliflowers are waiting on the clay-black field
they wait
and contemplate, from behind the moon

my scents are sulfur and red
and dark
arrivals-supper
landed bad somehow

this dark-dutch clay
drags me down
deep into dreary dreams
waking up here, gives me pain in my ass

as if it’s all about a slow-death
underneath a certain level
as if the loam is magnetic

and seasons here
are boundless

| all rights remain with F. J. de Backere | Amsterdam | 2009 |