trout

Tanka 2005

Richard von Sturmer

summer rain,
I forgot
that I was forty-seven
and now
I'm forty-eight

pale man swimming,
in the middle of his back
a circular tattoo
its greenish-blue ink
the same colour as the waves

so many words
written down
then wiped away—
the whiteboard
turns violet

fierce moonlight
pierces
a faded curtain,
two bodies lie
asleep in bed

flying at night,
the earth below
completely unknown
there is only
endless sky

at sunrise the intense
voice of a thrush
calling calling calling
until it gets
a response