Forgive me for seeing your bones before your flesh your flesh before your dress and your dress before your floating gaze, for it´s December, and more naked than the horrible chicken that I took from the cooler bin and immediately dropped, as its thin blood suddenly trickled through the cellophane and down into my sleeve, are the trees, whose black structures pursue me like everything alive but reminiscent of death, and everything dead but seeming to live; math problems with seven variables, spiraling snailshells of poems, and cranes of the Nordhavn, which give in the wind while I fall asleep in your long limbs, but dream of highrises besieged by scaffolding and of scaffolding hung with thundering tarpaulins. Forgive my gaze, which flies over you like seasons alternately crowning you with the light of a caress and undressing you like a raw-cold rain; I don´t claim that this month´s austere treetrunks are any truer than downy leaves in May -- and besides, I´ve left truth to the young: For me it´s enough to say things as they are.