Forfatterarkiv: Thomas Boston

Thomas Boston: To digte

Afbetaling som en bog og et prismærke forlod de hinanden hun forlod ham præcist og så langsomt og præcist som han forlod hende i en gensidigt barmhjertig tøven så mindst muligt af den ene fulgte med den anden og det …

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Thomas Boston: To tekster

bag øjnene                                         forbliver                                   noget                                                                                                                                jeg tror det er mig                          rummet                                                     en stue                                 højt oppe               tænk ikke mere                                         end det blik     og                                                                 en vinter udenfor                                                                                       skurrer sig ned over taget                                  som alt                                      i mig                                   falder                                                        væk                                                              med et brag                                                  nej  tænk ikke                            mere mere mere                ellers er her stille                                                                                           lyde kun små                           af afbrudt                                                              hjertebump                       som strømpefødder                                                                                                      hun vimser døgnet rundt                                                                                     og hun f l i m r e r   ind                         og ud                                           af sine glemte                                                                                              begejstringer                      af opdigtede værelser    (af vores glemte er vi kommet)                                              der er så meget støv hun vil vise mig                   og pludselig                                                                            slår blikket sig til ro                                    som to blåfugle vipper                                                                                    langsomme kaotiske pust                                                                                                                                        små hvirvler gennem et helt andet                                                    væk                                                                   herfra                                                                                                       hvor vi er                                og så taler vi              mund i mund                                      om nødvendigheden af sumpe                        af grænselande                                                                                                    ikke gå glip af tårer             at ligge søvnløs af lykke                                                                                                                   at trodse sig hjem                                                                               …

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