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memorial poem

hoch-getragenes Rennen
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
was es die gesagten Maschinen war
meine Seele ist ein dunkles gepflogenes Feld
durch das Ufer durch das Meer
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten

 



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