On his newly stolen Kawasaki
our high heroin-neighbour also soars
into spring which now rises
through the camouflage of the rosehip bush
that we think at this moment
that we could vanish into,
as seen with the sleep-drugged eyes of a cat.
A total oblivion,
where the war's soldier blown to smithereens and an unsettled memory
can be lifted away by a petal's
sudden flash!
On the veranda's
open bed we discuss the soul of the wasp
fighting in the wind
for its blind, unknown queen
and therefore never losing its way.
Oh, life in the perfect state!
I look into
your black hair. A silver stripe
grows there. Does it grow
towards its uniqueness
farthest out there? Or is it just waiting
for its thousand sisters?
Laburnum-yellow, rhododendron-
pollen, "Wild horses"
and the signal from a mobile phone
that arches in from a third
or fourth world (Ole?).
But here no one answers.
Here everything already exists.
In the Parmenides-
hour the hair grows
into the wasp, the wind
into the state and silent
we hide in the vacuum of the thought.
A picture
which looks like a picture
of a life. A picture,
even with this smoke from the meat on the grill
that now glides past
and disappears like a kiss
against the sky's
boundless theft.

Translation: May-Brit Akerholt