to you
sensing grasses. in twilight
you

are aware. what would grow towards &
infront
of the window.

fallow lies
towards
the word & to you mercy. which

only reaches you shortened. barely
across
the swell of the leaves.

past you. the scot’s pine’s
place
slips away. such soft light as

its horizon. drawing itself
fluently
out of the bark.

the constant bearing of the
leaves
breaks softy through a

hearing. when
it
shines to you discolouredly.

at the sound
of
snow. already not far anymore

steps out of the wood
he.
trace into outlinelessness.

…

With kind permission of the Estate of Jürgen Kross

dr flowerville, oscillating between words and images, aimless reflections on creative practice.