The will is horizontal.
The plants' fat casings shine for a long time.


It is Sunday.
(Between 08.00 and approximately 14.00 I throw up about ten times.
In between I try to lie completely still on the bed or on
the floor in front of the TV.) Much in the poem—in the heavy dark firewood—
changes during the passage of work (aging).
I always collate everything I write.
Things and people are just slowly traded in.