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thanksgiving poem

neben einem geschlagenen Feld
weich als das Bett in der Masse
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen
ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
ich rĂĽttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
erklären Sie mir nicht
drei Tage hörte ich sie, sich Sorgen zu machen, wann ich absolut lege
hören Sie
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
tat Sie hören überhaupt
fĂĽr dann auĂźen

 



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