along the pier in the night like
a (marine blue) pullover from neckerman
among the malmöites shattered by welfare
and their elegant bicycles

the moon seemed a white flat-fish diving among
almost transparent branches
and I told you:
„I don't mind dying, I just don't wanna go out like some punk”

there
in the southern city,
I first knew the sharp pleasure of frost
mixed with vodka,
the simple pleasure of salmons
dreaming of another way
to get rid of the nets of fishermen
away from their unfaithful wives
and their blond and silent children
with their lunettes always headed to Tropics

late,
a sad, medieval peace
laid between us
like an endless sleep