Today we walked the inlet Nybøl Nor
remembering how to tread on frozen snow.
Ate cold sloeberries
that tasted of wind—a white pucker—
spat their sour pits in snow. Along
the horizon, a line of windmills dissolved
into a white field. Your voice
on the phone, a gesund auf dein keppele
you blessed my head. Six months now
since I've seen you. There are
traces of you here, your curls still dark
and long, your woven dove,
the room you stayed in: send your syllables,
I am swimming below the tidemark.
Words shed overcoats, come
to me undressed, slender-limbed, they have no
letters yet. It is the festival
of lights, I have no
candles. I light one for each night,
pray on a row
of nine lighthouses.