"All she could do was read the chapter that was about her, her mother, her sisters, her yes."

In all gardens it takes a long time. Growing grass in the garden and it's her garden now. The grass, her hand, the cold grass or finally of cloud. The growing cloud. She knows that the sky darkens, moisture vaporizes, everything. Grass should not be on her mind now. In the garden she possesses distance and form. Forms of possession, the time it takes. Brown instead of green or white, late. Her hand can be seen when it moves and no longer thinks about now. Like the grass and cloud, but closer. Finally brown, hardened. She has the same spade, but an older hand. Nuances of darkness, weight. Which do not allow light to pass through. But also lace exists and points, veils, bedclothes, curtains, iron bars.

For a long time she owned horses and had thoughts about other horses. Slowly they ran through enclosures. Shimmering, glossy, through grass as through glass. Thinner bones through tighter skin. Not one of them causes losses.


The distance of the garden from the grass and the flowers.

she can be blank
the extremely clear rain blank
the extremely dark dark blank            the glass that stands on the table
the unlimited light and
that which says that light exists

mild weather, wind, clouds, shower, drizzle, short periods of drought
lengthy periods of longing
one night's darkness

The weather changes quickly, she has to understand it. She can do the same.
The extremely clear extremely delicate blade of grass. Her eyes draw attention to
themselves. No one is there. There's a glass on the table. This is already known.
The glass falls through the window. Someone owns the water.
Doesn't land in the grass then. Someone owns the softness. She has taken a pillow
sham out through the door, the unlimited light and that which sees that light exists.
One cannot go on speaking. One cannot give way. It is thin, the grass,
the softness, the words about her hair like narrow bands,
In a lighter context, twilights, birds.
The ear against the red stitches, stings, resting
maiden name, you know

is not rose. a red in the darkness. even longing.


She might be able to sit here
beneath the tree and wait.


Simultaneously nuances resemble one another and trees like days.


When she lies down the rain hasn't stopped. The darkness is glossy in spots. On the
surfaces of the leaves small hollows that weren't there earlier form where the water
collects. Different views and objects are shifted among the rooms. Plants dry in the
dry heat. As a rule. But this is indoors.

The value of a house grows with age. Aging, automatically, like trees. This one
house among others will disappear very slowly. Long after her time. Others are
already gone. She can travel to places. Like visiting former city walls.

The sugar maple turns its leaves upward,
                                                                      in order to catch
                                                                                 the drops


It is not possible to turn without a lie.
Lies, like money and counterfeits are possibilities. Several white roses in the future
climbing the wall of the house. The wall like the roses belonged to the front of the
house and the sunrise. The scent alone would suffice to convince. Sun is to gardens
what shade is to dogs, thus a form. That is to say an invention. Benevolence,
restriction. The edge of benevolence. Stupor.
Want: it to be quiet, clean, agreeable. Want to be paid. Preferably over the table.
Much like
The trees are endless. It doesn't just seem that way. Time is caused by circles but is
construed as lines. Fine circles between light circles between the thumb
and forefinger. Rubbing motions. Tearing and widening.

Want the money back.


Much like reason and longing
In one book she had read about a woman's pleasure at sunset near the water. In
another she had read about the water. The color of the sun's last rays made the water
seem to burn in the woman's eyes. When she much later. Much later she stood there,
unfinished, in a song, and a light-brown cardigan, about a man who died. Without a
smile. The water was above all not transparent. The absence made her wonder where
admiration turns into love and vice versa. Or if it was the water's way of being
continuous. The light like one projection of many. Stopping instead of going. A
method of distinguishing beautiful from plain. The last rays of the sun had no color.
She seemed not to wait any longer. Seemed
to be able
to sing.
                                                        Don't remember either how it ended
The headbone on the other side. The equally heavy bodies and thin light lines.
Something as complicated as a hairstyle, or the veiny upper side of the hand. The
smaller hairs. The hairs on the tongue and a forest of hair. Restricted areas,
To cancel out long after. She said she is my first memory. Cancel

                                                                                    The distance       between

                                                                             Translated from the Swedish by Rika Lesser.