a tale of summer gone

the summer here vanished in a matter of hours
everyone kept staring right and left
trying to spot it as it rushed east, west or,
most probably,
south. And there as such, darkening without notice
clouds urged their way through
kicking each and everyone into the 5th season
which is like a trailer of what will come
brooding with the new.

it was indeed a parenthesis,
and in a more fatalistic, pagan way
we could say; for every Berliner's complaint
–about past July heat–
a raindrop fell on the city, on its streets
and in its canals. filling straight lines with concentric circles.

for b.j.

presences

she is there
in my livingroom
strange place for a bike
though she's metal and rubber
people attribute more to that
than to a handshake or a kiss

she resonates in my mind
a silent connection with what can only
be imagined and wished for.
she impersonates, comes to silent steel life,
represents, and–if you won't believe me–
she ultimately, fills some square meters
around me at night at day and every day.

but she cannot decide
she has a mute power
to set her limits certain:
where she should go and how much she should wait
before becoming an object again. inanimate, motionless and material.

for b.j.

i tried

and i am rested on
a canal bed
looking up through the murky depths reversed
to a sky rebounding you
as if the course of the waterway
was deviated to make space
for all the words
that had been written and said along its banks
and what of the miles that rest
from here to that other hemisphere?

distances built with tracks, to go far, to accept
that, maybe, this voyage would be our last
happily ended after
i had wrestled from the before. i couldn't overcome
the grassroots of the equator.
an imaginary line couldn't free you, how could i.

for b.j.