On the back of a failed villanella
I wrote the account of a dream.
Now I read the scrawling tale
of a giant's severed head, rolling
like a bowling ball on my bedroom floor.
It sniffed at puddled underwear,
leered up with horrible eyes
and forced me to stumble to his bed.

There's an impossible distance.
Still strong, I can make it.

I touch his terribly thin shoulders
and tell him how well he sleeps,
how happy that makes me,
but I know that whatever words I use
or gesture I make
he will never believe me,
he will not cross the gap anymore.
I cannot reach him.

he is the bowling ball.

Marjon van Bruggen
January 2018