Bloody Places

Morning. Morning
the wind blows twenty metres per second
the boom barrier shakes with fear.

I come to the laboratory for a blood test, as always
there are elderly with color yoga mats
ready to do yoga in the room beside it.

The nurse takes my hand with an invisible touch.
She says, look through the window into the park.
I see the dustmen gathering the dust
I see her silhouette reflected in white
and a red bandage on my arm.
She says she's taken two bottles of blood
without me noticing — that's the magic for her.

Paying thirty seven euros I exit the bloody place,
climb into the car, put the seatbelt on
and drive outside of town.
The speed limit alters,
the wind that shakes the rooftops stays the same.

In the field there is a house for sale
it is so dark I barely see the ground
and the mud ruins my shoes.

They say the house sells for twenty nine thousand,
you just need to sign —
but I don't have the papers and I don't have the money.
Despite that, I nod in agreement
that some day I am going to live here,
that some day I am not going to leave.