Bokelskere.no

The Sap
Wells like tears, like the
Water striving
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky--- Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection. At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

A sort of walking miracle, my skin bright as a Nazi lampshade,

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it excepionally well.