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funny poetry

ihr schönes Haar
rühren Sie sich
Kurzschluß und süsses und wir sind zum Ende von ihm gekommen
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
sie sagte
hören Sie den Regen?
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
entlang den Bänken
über ihnen alle, unten schauend
herauf von den Süden am Bruch des Tages

 



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