From ‘I Made Him Up', No. 4 Poem by Jan Baeke

On the road as always, read my hand
bought a canary
saw you.

Looked round out of faith.
Then let my voice fly, clapped after it
pointed so hard that everyone looked.

Now you and I are into other fabrications
we are getting
stranded in a secret.

Not here not in this room
not like this.
Infuriating words.

Not the answer of whatever canary
which is always less
and enough.

This is what the canary voices:
the sound of a room
with no one inside.

Translation: 2008, Willem Groenewegen