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anniversary poetry

es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
jenseits schauen
Glasbläser der Zeit
blau-schwarze nubian zupfende Orangen
ich habe sie in der Nacht gehört
Bruder, bin ich Feuer
ich brenne keinen Duft
gegangen die drei, jene seltenen Schwestern
desolate und einsam
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
die Schwärzung stiehlt die Formen aller Königinnen

 



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