You sit on the edge of the world Poem by Lies Van Gasse

You sit on the edge of the world
and almost everyone is ill.
You look at the houses from up on the edge
your roofs, sick of the world

which one day manages to blow itself up
with the violence of a fruit rotting from within,
an over-ripe berry, a plum plucked too late.

The day is a tight suit;
you wear it and it takes you along
to crumbly houses, the unbearable
whiteness of office buildings.

Somewhere in the attic room a child crawls
unwashed beneath the bed, daily,
as if wanting to match itself against monsters.

You write a job description for being yourself,
but the days are steadily losing their colour
and there is no other on the horizon.

You sit on the edge of a world
that breaks into thin slits, each of which,
through colour, texture and length,
forms another type of tunnel:

the smooth tunnel that leads from the cathedral
onward to shop after shop,

the grainy tunnel, actually semi-soft,
that connects parks to trees,
a table, a nest edge, a house,

and then, in stone, the tunnel that leads out of town,
where the bus waits, and people outdo the hours by smoking,
going through phone card after phone card.

You can turn everything to your advantage,
but what is the point, when
roof tiles are going through the air
like flying handkerchiefs
in endless slow motion

and they stop time every third beat,
the dome closing every second.

With your hard-cover hand you eat up the books
that people throw to you, with the hacked hand
you grasp at every item that approaches me.

In the middle of your trip you met a man
who, with one hand in the air and the other in his back pocket,
could be a flight line for the future.

You can turn everything to your advantage,
but the focal point disappeared.

Tunnels rounded themselves
into a thrusting, vehement and relentless,
that only seemed to lead to itself.

So on the fringes of all this you strive
for dissipating ideals.

The man in the suit spreads his arms,
a living flight line spreads its arms,
the guard at the tunnel spreads his arms,
your applicant spreads her arms,
your brother empties his pockets and spreads his arms,
the book thrower spreads his arms,
the child beneath the bed spreads its arms,
a forgotten love spreads her arms,
your late cousin on the mantelpiece spreads his arms,
the mother in the doorway spreads her arms,
a sentinel of time spreads his arms,
your sister kisses her child and spreads her arms,
everyone who is ill spreads their arms.

You sit on the edge of the world
and you know: there is nothing. I have time.