FRIKTION

The dew settles in small cobwebs at dawn.
White carpets glow
in the heather.
The charcoal is black, hard, brittle, and light.
Like ash?
I draw on large sheets.
The mist catches in gossamer threads
like tears on our vulnerability...?

(Where am I?)
Sometimes strong as a rhinoceros,
sometimes afraid with my head in the sand.
An excavator tooth has holes that fit a fingernail of glass.
The chessboard, the shoe, the ladder. Is it the tango?
The bowl rings, receives.
Until it overflows.
A little elephant woman sways, falls back, leans, laughs.

Another is out with the rucksack, knocking something aside.
(What has to go?)
Woolly birds’ nests began as hearts, warm soft – some screamed
Soundlessly but fell silent after washing.
The bird (which Millie calls the grasshopper) has a chair on its head
– for the beloved.

Liv Due Translated from Swedish