VISIT NO. 12 627 Poem by Maarten Inghels

It's freezing in this heart. She has skated loops into a scarf
that has knotted round my neck. With the blood mill as

the only shadow witness, I will call its root my home. On
that heart's horizon there is an ice-hole, seven doves are peeking

over the edge. Beside the hole, I am painting a still-life
that looks out on the blood square, I look past the stairwell

all the way down and see the quivering blackfish lying
at the bottom. I can hear neither ambulances, nor rolling curtains,

there isn't a single paper being printed, nor anything written,
nor a smiley winking. The landscape softly reduces

its sleepless ones to silence. No dog to bark
while it is winter, the ice cracking its bone-idle fight.

I met her at the gala of her glances. And if that is where
my heart will melt, I can lose her if need be.