There are birds here,
the garden has no fence.

My neighbor checks in on the roses
and brushes away lice with soft
working hands.

I’m looking out from the frailbed

through the window
at him, and past
to the mountains further, west.

The strokes of dusk
yet heavy of you

My neighbor moves towards this and
still goes.

He knows I’m here.

It is enough.

Silver in his hair,
silver in a snail’s thread.

Threads in my head.

Selected byNolcha Fox
Image credit:Nikita Tikhomirov
Nathalie Spaans

Nathalie Spaans lives in Amsterdam and works as a public attendant in a cool museum. In day to day life she finds it hard to convey what's going on. With writing she tries to make sense of it.