eighty-nine shirts

his strong sons

rows of green mountains

burnt carrot powder

many times folded

‘it is possible to make the world new’

those short legs

cleaned of young turnips

even the woodcutter

such idiocies

in his roomy elbow-chair

pale as clay

coffee, bread and butter

it’s prune oven

a day in a thousand

convoy of potato wagons

without changes as disturbance

baked goose for a week

singing with a different matter

fell from their hat-brims

large and loose

two watches set to the right time

cabbages buried in sand

every cabbage stump

‘youths wild ocean’


among the totally silent

sickly air

mania for salt

pride, pity, love

dusted a circle

cowardly and idle

shoots of the essence

calm messages

a wreath of love

outside all degradation