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lyric poetry

seien Sie nicht falsch
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
die Sonne ist oben
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
ich habe das Rennen gewonnen
im September
nun da ich zu Ihnen abgekühlt bin
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
ich kann nicht seinem greatness immer glauben
gute Frau
gaily durch die Felder tanzten wir
ich sah, daß Gott Sie es? bezweifeln
wenn es
Glasbläser der Zeit

 



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