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teen poems

gestiegen von den Toten
ich halte Ihr Herz
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
Schatten legen entlang broadway
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
weich als das Bett in der Masse
Frau vermißte viel, wie Sie zu mir benennen, Anruf zu mir
so gefallen
die Schwärzung
erklären Sie mir weniger oder erklären Sie mir mehr
es ist zutreffend, daß Sie sagen, daß die Götter mehr Gebrauch zu Ihnen als Feen sind
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben

 



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