by Birgitte Brøndum


They run over every surface

trace all kinds of shapes

and though

tempted by sharp and pointy edges

they resist

and instead

they dive deep down

in the soft, white heaps of flour

dig into fine, warm fur

linger for a second or two

in sweet, sticky droplets

of spilled wine


in splashes of cold water

and slip

on bars of lemon scented soap.

They slide

inside pockets

to fidget with ice cold keys

rub apart crumbled receipts

and tap dance on tabletops.

But after switching off the lights

they travel

back in


to caress with dark air

the shivering, warm skin

now displayed and contained

behind stained glass walls

cut by diamond razor tongues

and firm, friendly handshakes.