February 20, 2008

On Wednesday morning, 8 o’clock
I lie in bed and eat some squares of
swiss chocolate.

You can do that when abroad
and when in Bern, the capital of Switzerland
you have no choice –

must also drink a cup of
dark velvet, ski in alps,
or fabricate.

In the kitchen, Uncle Michael scrapes toast,
like climbers chipping ice caps,
motorists on windshields.

Through the window
vanilla sunlight falls on net
shocked blue is worked by slate.

This morning, Uncle Bundi came
to find me typing in his
loaned bedroom. “Lydia-

she is always writing?”.
Can almost see him
pushing back

the folds of coat,
bending down to stroke the fur
of Ida’s neck.


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