IF GIACOMETTI HAD BEEN ALONG Poem by Henrik Nordbrandt

Everything has its limit, people say.
Each day I stand at a new one
and so come to think
about infinity, this
world's strangest word
because only language contains it
within language itself, so then
a limit is thereby set.
It is clear, though
like its background colorless
like grief
that has consumed all colors
so their absence
stands out all the clearer.
The picture can be called
The Blue Desert and placed
on the other side of itself
in the next room
so with these words meaning
becomes sand.
Has everything come along?
Like it I bring only
the contents of my pockets.
So perhaps what is missing
could be a statue
of myself.
It would be incredibly tall
and made of iron, in the second person singular.