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short love poem

ich sah die Wolken unter den Hügeln
herauf von den Süden am Bruch des Tages
im Hafen neuen Yorks
seien Sie nicht falsch
mit Lippenblut Rot und Herz des Steins
Glück
Material des Mondes
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
wenn Nacht entlang den Straßen der Stadt treibt
innerhalb meiner Hand halte ich
ich sterbe
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
Glasbläser der Zeit

 



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