for Bo Cavefors
Es klingt etwa so wie das Rascheln in gefallenen Blattern
Their cases are locative or instrumental.
Here, in this place, I see the leaves falling
on the fabulously stayed crosses and inscriptions, as they fell on the Homeric simile of generations.
You have heard them, the little dissuaders,
whispering in the attics, or from behind the creaking stairs, with their busy spools and laughter, seemingly
from no human lungs. You proceed to ask:
What’s your name? Answers: Odradek.
Where do you live? Unbestimmter Wohnsitz.
They cannot die but cease to exist
when you do not listen. In another place,
in Paris, a car is stopped: a little dog
in the lap of a young girl exploding
like a ripe autumnal fruit in her hands. Her
lover is already carved in half by bullets.
There are cleaner cases, more winsome
uses for the accusative. Do not heed them anymore.
Here we all die, in bits and pieces.
Göran Printz-Påhlson
