in the new anti-kraak universe you play squatter
upside-down in your brain at parties you proffer

slim handshakes, some modest attempts at dutch
& a determination to stand there all day like a boer

in a landscape where he is indigenous - the white
light shining from his invisibly big head; yet you

fall under the dim star of sleep (where eerie canals
watch you breathe & you stagger from one station

to another - drugged by sundown, watching the big
orange heat ball swinging royally low over the meer

a cardboard world where settlers merrily invade each
other after dinner ... you lose a continent over coffee

or else blood-red wijn, a casualty of summer time
where the day & the air & the land are belong to us