Leaving Struer

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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