Nicole von Horst

A history of what is yet to come

To dwell in the possibility of one's own room

To bloom under a bell jar's roof

and yet

To cover oneself with a hidden word as sheet

To pillow oneself with written hurt

and yet

to grow.

No less:

To bleed out sprouts

and steps

that lead your doubts

and debts

closer

away.

To show your closed eyes the sun and take it in your mouth

To wade out south where burning flowers grow

and then?

To watch fresh eyes break through the dirt, in pain

To flirt with pauses for your sighs

and then

To sing!

Much more:

To gain the sounds

I missed

In vain my frowns

none hissed

farer

or close

A rose

is a rose

I rose.