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poetry poem

fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
ich weiß nicht wo
Überschreiten durch die huddled und häßlichen Wände
alle jene Schätze, die liegen
in Ihren Armen war ruhige Freude
über ihnen alle, unten schauend
noch dreizehn Jahre
als ich am Sonnenuntergang zurückkam
die auf das Oberseite sagen, daß sie Sie, Masse kennen -- sie sind Lügner
durch die ausgedehnten schmerzende Brust der Masse
dunkel-eyed

 



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