Sini Silveri

Winter has drooled itself into a brown grass in the wind. Between two streets there is fog, mist, and wobbling yard fences. Something moist comes out of me towards the green water garden. The evening’s grayish orange moment descends to the sea bottom: a spot where the day is finally lost, that is to say a long trail lying between three and six o’clock, during which the chickadee suckles at the fatball’s purse’s rims one last time.
Hey! What a nice deer-shaped Christmas yard lighting you have, heck of a landscape painting by the fridge in the kitchen. How carefully can the outdoors-strength-sport appliances be lifted at night here where the winter drowns all of us in a slow and colossal move.
The pine tree watches all of this, models itself in the wind into the palm of a hand and raises a thumbs-up silhouette in front of the ice field’s lights, it says, “Hey… none taken.” Late at night, I think someone, someone perhaps from Teboil will come and drive the snowmobile through the terrace-side window onto the bed where I’m lying motionless and the window shards and the rollers will go into my body. Another option is for the lighting deer to gallop in through the window.

*

The station is a flat-roofed, red-brick rowhouse framed by two air heat pumps and two plastic chairs. Water came through the window seal, half of the plant’s soil is plastic, low mid-river hay. The swamp floods the tussock cottongrass, a clearcutting work site. The relative’s hand strokes the bench’s leg; this is yours, here’s where you must dance. Here some call themselves jaguars; here you may be Pumba, pour oil into the water, lift with strength before the dunes, be a barbarian, a normal costumer. In August, plants staggered, and pipes burst. The rhythm of draught and wet rotting drives the OnniBus along. The cold and warm air changes after the fashion of deep ponds: white birches, black water, white birches, a minifountain, bright-green combed hay. The slanting final light beacons from the corner, the green is starkly naked and raw. The Blu-Tack-blue rain clouds to the right, the willowherb’s tuft top fleece explodes in the wind underneath. The rowhouse disappears. The sunset reaches over the shoulders and starts to scatter. The peach color floats just like a soundless fart mid-air and I want to be a wave in the huddle, affect the sea’s appearance along with the others, be all of us dancing at an open-air nightclub. I want to eat the plastic chair, sow the field with the jaguar in the autumn rain, ride the fountain, make a new year’s eve hillock out of my navel, water the brain’s meadow scatter-mindedly, party in the titan disco.

*

Relaxed by the shore we lie, imagining the taste of ice cream, making a cone with our hands. We eat through many mouths; we don’t wait for the visa electron to work anymore. Time streams by, there are many people and few properties related to gender. The skin burns.
 The air heat pump drones over there, we will never reach it again as it is falling to the bottom.
In the space following the surrender we know, we’ve been passive, we’ve been anticipatory. When leaving the castle of surrender we are painted, yellow-toothed whites, we have black creases in the forehead and stepping outdoors we melt into gorgeous porcelain platters. We watch a leaf in the tree because we must refrain from thinking about the night bus’s timetables, from checking them online on the way to the toilet, from finding out the account’s balance. It’s time to squander words devices thoughts, to speak pretty much about everything, without fearing an explanation, being precise about it, by doing the fear accurately, by doing the works accurately, not knowing. Because there’s no nice holiday, earned absence, poeticness. We’re the same as the concept of a flower, the concept of water, the concept of sludge, eggshell, the blue of mud in our hands.