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writing poetry

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
hatten er und i aber getroffen
Überschreiten durch die huddled und häßlichen Wände
da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe
wie wie die Sterne dieses Weiß ist, namenlose Gesichter
Bonbon mit Farn und stieg
als es
ich habe sie in der Nacht gehört
ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut
Stern-Staub und vaporous Licht
das endlose, dumme merriment der Sterne
unter dem Erntemond
ein mit Ihnen


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