Sunday Poem

Finding Flowers

Now I dreamt of you sleeping and dreaming,
beside me, in my bed, and of how it all was,
nothing happened except you sleeping and dreaming,
beside me, in my bed, and my looking at you,
and seeing how inexorably and all-pervasively
beautiful you were, how you were: all sleep and
dream and time, which gave itself ample time,
and how I knew that this immaculate waking
needs no kisses of shushing nostalgia,
when we think we’re dreaming of dreams
and religiously do the work, unseen by anyone.

by Pieter Boskma
from Het violette uur
publisher: Prometheus, Amsterdam, 2008
translation: 2012, Paul Vincent

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