they were produced in some venetian monasteries ever since the VIII century



“1,80 €– dang, that’s terribly expensive for–”

“it’s handcraft” i say,

carefully holding the moon
or what you would translate it to
in my right palm,

he smiles
“you gonna eat it now?”

“i’m not yet ready”

cobble lines the path between the river Ile
old timber maisons,

Strasbourg’s old gothic cathedral,
dark and filigrane like stitchery,
done by an old, grey woman, moving gently
in her rocking chair
between the smell of apple pie, sprinkled with cinnamon,
her grandkids,

“If you tried to land on Neptune,
you would fall right into it”

my planet’s in a tiny paper bag
so spiderfine

i unwrap the macaron,
bring it gently to my lips,
crisp like first snow

“not so quick” my husband says

i close my eyes
take the first bite
lemonflavor from a fruit plucked by a wrinkly, sunburnt farmer in brazil
spills uncontrolled in pulsing heaps
outpouring all its mysteries
in one bright flash
before it melts, soft&calm&easy
into sunlight on my tongue

“is it good?”
“it’s—- do you wanna try?”
he shakes his head,

&all the planets
we can never land on,
our tatooed boatman,
the confectioner with flourdust on his white starched shirt

lean back
into the city’s vibrant spine

until i lick the last crumbs from my lips



for dVerse OLN

nope// don’t buy a travel guide but ask someone who slept a thousand times with her& is still crazy for her taste

it’s like a city closes lips// around you.
full. red
not yet there
&lost already
in the firm touch on your thighs
her tongue against the gates of
millise/Conds//now until

a world erRupts
&you bite moaning in your pillow
“doN’t sToP–”

rivulets of sweat gather to lakes

across your chest “i—“
on the shore

a sailboat, gondola
in ebony, a flock of doves above san marco square
the sea’s kiss on–

“you sure?” i ask
a million planetseeds / in wild commotion in my mouth
form new&sunspilled constellations

“born/&into what?” they ask
“i dunnoyet”
a moment’s pause like cat paws



then a bent old woman drags a bag of groceries
towards rialto bridge
and maybe i mistake plain sex
for the moon’s wide sea of rains//tranquility//ocean of storm, the bay of dew–

the sun (lush&whole&pink) sinks in the water’s waiting flesh
“she’s gonna drown” i say
with worried wrinkles on my forehead
it is but another region on her jagged chest
that we’ve not discovered yet

&in the losing
she may find

her language


hubs surprised me with a trip to venice later this year…so excited…
linking up with oln at dVerse...

wondering if mr. beuys would call me a dead hare

after struggling for a second
i leave my high heels in the car
looks versus mobility,
the need to move,
among painters (he points out more than once)
making a living from their art
so here’s a gap– ha

the curator talks about their studies,
artawards, exhibits
over a glass of sp aR*k LiNg wine, one of them
“a living?
it’s all relative you know– and honestly— “

i was suspecting this
“how do you start?” i ask

because i love beginnings, empty canvasses
&space to make mistakes, create

i try to talk to all of them,
forget to eat
&drink just water for a cool head,
for not falLiN g into traps of–
hedgehog or a hare? //i’m calm

the short old man has friendly eyes
“are you an artist too?” i ask
“or let me guess– a city mayor?”
he laughs, shakes my hand
we talk forever

“you enjoyed yourself – right?”
a colleague asks on the phone the next day
“ha – how do you know?”
“someone told me— you looked sweet”

i browse an excel file&smile

the curator with a weasel’s eyes says
in his art, he leaves nothing anymore to chance
that each line has its designated spot,
perfectly placed
“ooohhhh” i swallow the “how sad”
that bounces bonkers on my tongue

cause i’m a stranger in a foreign land
with buckets full of awkward lines, unripe
that poutingly twirl thumbs
long forgotten//fog-faced

in the car trunk


linking up with dVerse Poets‘ OLN tomorrow…

dear 5 liter bucket of “sahara” colored paint,

i slept in the desert once,
a ragged bedouin tent

the night
has thousand voices, sand
between its toes
and greasy eggs for breakfast
as the sun washes her face
in dew
in hidden streams
in thoughtfulness

i bought the bucket at the DIY
for 7 Euros/half price,
not exactly top notch quality
more mudflat,
slush, left in a city
when a flood hits

still it makes me think of venice
&i paint hues of english-red
bright on her cheeks

&maybe this is more a letter about comradeship
one third’s
the fear of losing it
one third wide
wide open space
the rest
i haven’t figured out yet,

i remember lying in that tent,
the distant howl of coyotes,
rustling movement
in the sand next to my ear,
a million stars pinned to the firmament

a story/ in a story/ in a voice
i miss

so desperately


wrote this to Abhra´s “write a letter” prompt – and linking up with OLN at dVerse

high-pressure cleaner//we just call them kärcher//that’s successful branding isn’t it?


the easter bunny on my desk
is headless
someone asks

“if there were no consequences
–how would you want to live?”

a space for dreams

uncensored yet
of what is possible

there’s no such thing as neutral ground
&it takes bravery
to allow the mind to–

i stop in the middle of a thought
the size of africa– beyond–
windows&paths that lead like rivers in-
to something huge&beautiful

my colleague leans on the counter,
talks about italian cars,
and i get only half of it//because it’s foreign
and he’s talking fast

“&if he’s late?” he asks, caTching his breath

“he won’t” i smile
“he wears two watches”
filling in the blanks//t( )cK T( )cK

as if that is a guarantee
to get
the signs of time


for oln at dVerse

boy with a bird cage

i don’t see him,

almost in a shade,
a blueprint in a wrinkled corner of–

a woman cycling down the street, with a bag of groceries
her little boy wraps both arms round her hips
she sings for him

sings along the squeeks of trams, horns and the city’s gritty teeth
slalom- ing around pedestrians and parked cars
her thick coat a red flag

whispering of care and dreams and freedom as
berlin wildly slings limbs around my ankles — legs,
tousles my hair with windworn tongue

a tincage swings on his arm

i cannot say
if the bird’s still in it
nothing in his eyes
hints– though

i feel him as he stands

across the street
diffusing lights

throw the strangest shades
upon me


for OLN at dVerse… last poem from my berlin trip last week…smiles

if you put your good shoes underneath a painting table— right


the walls in the hotel are paperthin
if someone would have sex next door–
you see// there’s just the murmuring
of a tv though
&i should concentrate on other things

the nite before i left
i crumbled

as i always do before a journey
his hand on my hip/holding me together
“you don’t have to go”
“i know, but–”

there are hens outside my window,
&i eat their eggs for breakfast
patches of leftover snow

i text “can i get a hot-air gun for christmas?”


&here’s the proof
that bitumen can sink a freight ship

what is left
is sand and blue—some waves

that don’t know anything about me
tar chunks
glued heavy to my hands

“what ya need it for?”

but that’s a secret
like the shrill containers on the front deck

what they carried?

“you’ve no idea” i say to the beach
which rolls sandy, like a pouting cat
against my toes
&there is paint
—————-even there

you just//
———–can’t see it


for OLN at dVerse... i’ll be a bit delayed with my commenting as i’m driving back home from the painting workshop in munich today…. see you then…

i couldn’t fit him into a cinquain//apologies to tony

the old part of zürich is a nest of alleys,
galleries, little shops&houses
that breathe history

a cold wind sneaking from the lake
the indian guy stops next to me
“you’re blessed” he says

“with a long life”
“oh really” &i turn around
into a foreign galaxy,
“you’re worried though” he nods his head
in half-moon shape
i smile
“who doesn’t?”

the old, spanish speaking woman
sent me this way,
her swiss german a bright symphony
of what is possible
if you add chile, costa rica or–

&on the way back to the bus
i stop by a paint shop
lean into a shelf with colors, wrapped
against the cold
in nickel azo yellow

&think about that baramuda filet,
sizzle-rapping in a pan
in a fast food chain at zürich central,
how words spilled from his lips
i tried but– couldn’t sign-read

the bare longing for a shore
was overwhelming
carved//into his eyes
“i hear you” i say
“even though i don’t&–”

type a poem in my phone
that doesn’t even sCratcH

the moment’s surface


it’s OpenLinkNight at dVerse today… write a poem &join us… doors open at 3pm EST

despite the rain–

i leave the grey coat at the station, in the downpour of a day,
trains rush by, a little boy with baseball cap
&i don’t understand the math
of things that–

i have read
all night by a dim lamplight in the woods, wolves howling to the moon,
a sharp shaped scythe blade,

text a message to my girls
reply//reply//not what i’ve hoped though
&my husband says he’d join me at the slam the night before//

it all starts with a christmas song
a weird melody that mingles with the rain
it’s surreal//at best

i pour hot water in the bathtub
this is where he finds me
head first, bumbling far out on a branch,
a slowworm curling round my neck
“what the heck–“

“pssshhh, i’m a sloth” i say “moby dick or mr. spock–“
hold my nose//breath//dive

“i’ll send a postcard from the other side
&in the meantime rhyme
a traffic jam with only blue&yellow cars–“
he laughs, puzzled
just a bit “i put out the garbage bin// be careful//with your ears”

“the sky this morning” i say “was pink chalk
like in a painting&–”

somehow there’s no way
of getting over it


we’re celebrating our last OLN of the year at dVerse tonite… wanna join? doors open at 3pm EST…

now that the kids are gone, we move our bedroom from the basement to the first floor

there’s a poem
just above the shelf
or hundreds //actually
but none i would want to read

the shelf is bending mad
under their weight
the weight of all the words, stitched bleeding into
something that–

&some of them are shit
&some would look at me

if they had glasses
and i’d say “i’m NOT a poet, doN’t
stare at me like that”

i walk into the bathroom
sheet of paper&black fountain pen
in front of the mirror draw myself
without looking at my hands
trace lines

&can’t //find anything

pace restless–
“you’re tired” says the nut tart by the sink
(i eat it)
“it is all the painting” i admit, the choice
of color wrecks me&—

i sliP
between the cracks, the book backs
leaning intiMate

into their neighbor’s chest
because their is no space for MorEanDmore&mOre//WorDs

what the next text
is about

as no one really cares.
to tell ’em


we’re celebrating our monthly OpenLinkNight at dVerse today… write a poem, join us, doors open at 3pm EST…