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prose poetry

es war der Herbst des Jahres
schauen Sie zurück mit longing Augen und wissen Sie, daß ich folge
Melancholie, Blau war sie
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
ich bin der Wind, der wavers
ein kleiner Pfirsich im Obstgarten wuchs
alle beruhigen entlang dem potomac
durch die ausgedehnten schmerzende Brust der Masse
ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau

 



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