Galina Poem by Geert Buelens

You see
ants talk in lanes

They come in a group and take
the winter for
leafy trees

The hammer
on the wooden block

goes down

*

We are sentences
look
eight

*

From that point runs a
a scaly road
The meadow makes a reedy
sound

The clover drones on

O that Nurnberg feeling
the splitting of space
becomes entirely
packed in clarity
shimmerings allow
for tears

*

Whoever crosses a wheatfield
with steel
has the chance
to be on a clear course

*

Go
Go off
Top yourself.