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thanksgiving poetry

geben Sie mich
ich sah die erste Birne
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
ich hatte den Fall über-vorbereitet
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
die Lattentagesdrowses auf dem westlichen durchtränken
nicht von der breiten Welt des Ganzen
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
gegangen die drei, jene seltenen Schwestern
hohe Wände und sehr groß
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein

 



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