Britta Kallevang

things in life swell



things in life swell
to the river. i
make my bed at home. 
cellar stairs crackle.  whispers
come through me to me they say
nothing.  nothing comes to mind. 
the shadow of a gnat crosses my chest. 
i pick up a guitar and this, too, feels somehow. 
       sorry about the sponge droppings.  the
seaweed waves good-bye.  this signature, benevolent
omen.  the man at the fair, he is there by the gigantic
switch.  he pulls he pushes.  fair is fair.
i think a nest of doves might be your next.  great
feature.  mountains make. i know it is mine.  swimming
the digestive track, little shards of glass make
a tacit black.  a black moment is a forgotten.
a printed thought is a
black, featureless screen.  this remains
the same structured chair.  white wicker crackles
under fire, losing its structure, hurting its wires.  like a
madman’s handshake.  his grip.

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