Bogwoman’s brewing, says my mother outfromwhom I came yesterday tumbling, meaning that the fog rolls over Jylland, intowhich her mother sprang and left, returned to with that jolly man of Iowa whose spine was bent like mine – brewing, says my mother as the notyet morning slinks toward a train. Goodbye, goodbye, I am always saying, with the dumb sensation that it isn’t time, or that it should have been a while before. On the platform normal ways of standing cease to work – how to place my body in relation to their warmth? Parents sidebyside receding – already Denmark moves away, summer spins away, away the soul’s darkness gleams down fiercely in its cycle like a gash begun to heal. They are hands waving, these people whom I tumble outfrom into (what) – two hands explaining that I have not left enough, or with an adequate somehow force, just yet, and their mother’s father’s otherburning faces shouting all their forme love.
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