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poem for pastors

ich schleuderte meine Seele zur Luft wie einem Falkefliegen
ich muß sagen gute Nacht
im Hafen neuen Yorks
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen
ich weiß nicht wo
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
ihr schönes Haar
unnachgiebige Vergangenheit des thou
das Swanbestehen
die Wiese kroch
für dann außen

 



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  • The Garden of Last Days - guardian.co.uk
 

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