Saturday, March 12
from SUMMER
How can you think I’m listening
to the rabble I’m marrying
the venom from my lips
to the summer outside
my window with its treason
language of lilacs and
how that language dreams
about me how I must be
finished with flowers no
I’m finished with the treatment
you see in the photograph
of the mutilated fox
the caption reads barndom
as I thread amber on a string
the treatment string
I haven’t cut it yet
I’m going to cut it I’m going to
cut every string of every
necklace because I have to
go further go further
into den ruttna sommaren
if I’m going to end skulden
I want to be oskulden but
poems are never summer
they want to be written
about the cold crackling
in my spine
as I search for the insectine
language I speak when
I’m not ever writing again (Johannes Göransson)