Friday, December 22, 1995

It is evening. We are on a bus. There are a man and a woman stumbling down over rocks that jut through snow. As after bombing I saw locomotives on roofs.

The evening air might smell sweet from early snow. The stubborn soldiers tug open rusted iron doors and the ash billows out, covering us all and the snow grey. You might slip a sour candy into my lips and onto my tongue, as beautiful as a statue in your gleaming boots and black uniform. There is an orchestra of inmates to serenade us as we march off towards the forest and meadows. If you were here, you would know: the meadow looks back. The bus driver, who is here, knows: there is the undissembled, a music that follows us as we march out, undertake this, this everything already happening, already lying in the pit, the power of past days pushed over the grave again like loose soil, a dream of a love-affair by force. Discharging it into the atmosphere and unburdening the temptation to invent nothing, nothing, nothing. Likewise heartbeat, likewise tongue, likewise undissembled meadow. The paralyzed powers anchor us in this which unfurls, the bus driver and the old woman, me.

And when we march back, the music welcomes us, so it seems already like life after death.