The Days Change Hands

By Katrine Marie Guldager

This Afternoon

This afternoon will never really
become itself
its pace is too dull for that.
The sky is heavy with smoke
from far-off burned-down cities just like
my room where water runs down the walls and
cannot restrain itself any longer.
I braid threads out of remains
which I found in the forest
and I only know my own steps
as markings in the mud:
Most of the time I am on my way
and I do not come home
any more
this is no good.

Translated by Poul Borum