Piecemeal People

today, we shed our thoughts
the trees, their rotten clothes
naked, we weather the winter
repeating cycles of oxygen to carbon monoxide
vice versa
they, a clean purpose
i, my trembling cigarette mockery
and wrapped in hand me downs

i don’t mind
it’s a little old – some say
a little big, like this tank on my neck
in which i breed ideas from koi fish
growing to fill the space they’re offered
if i let their diet get too ego dependent,
i get lost
revert to a childhood wish for the power of invisibility
then realise it’s the gift of ’30’, ‘undiscovered’ and ‘lonely’

these are the boulders we are all breaking in secret
in us all is the art and knowledge of Gustav Vigeland
in us all are the instruction manuals on how to:
(1) wash
(2) wring
(3) fold
(4) mould
the pieces of mountains we conquer without climbing
through chisels and hammers, sculpting and scraping
making the piecemeal people, refined and eternal
a collection of life size paper weights,
keeping the letters in place to remember a name,
ambiguous enough to forget the face
and be left staring with only appreciation – perfectly still
statuesque as these trees with frozen droplets on their branches

if you look through them the world becomes a fish bowl
it magnifies a neglected scarf a little ways up the road
where you’ll discover – somehow
the discarded, can be loved again.


Jeg vil vite hva du tenker.