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Sport 40: 2012


page 214


in the year of mourning
the window frames moulder
in our kitchen.
the table isn’t laid
and the radio has a broadcasting ban.
only seldom do we still hear the
newsreader above the door.
we don’t switch languages
but observe the holidays.
sunflowers wilt
tied to the tree trunk.
the bees swarm out
even less often. in the year of mourning
a fridge salesman presents
new models.
the machines in the shed
are dropping their teeth
out of their forked jaws.
the men’s hair doesn’t grow back.
like copper walls the wax scales
shine in front of every beehive.
dead people are rare.
everyone is somewhere else, on this side.