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thanksgiving poetry

vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
einmal dieser weiche Rasen
Melancholie, Blau war sie
es gab eine Zeit in den ehemaligen Jahren
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
hoch-getragenes Rennen
schauen Sie heraus nach den Sternen, meine Liebe
warum
lassen Sie das reizende Wortunsaid
voll von den Rissen
plötzlich aus den dunklen und belaubten Weisen heraus
noch dreizehn Jahre

 



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