by Peter Holm-Jensen
I built a house in your arms, stole it from our love and took it to what I thought was the old desert. I was trying to sing Amazing Grace all the way to the Swiss banks of the soul, but all I did was sweat, and you reported me to the Great Commission before I hit a clean note. I went back to the friends you once tamed me of and got fat and drunk; that got boring real quick. So now I’m back to what they call square one. Some days it seems like a valid option. At least you don’t live in fear of getting ahead of yourself.
Peter Holm-Jensen, whose full catalog is here, is an émigré living in the UK, where he writes Notes from a Room.