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sex poem

Melancholie, Blau war sie
traurig sprechend
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
unter dem Erntemond
über dem Fluß auf dem Hügel
ich muß sagen gute Nacht
seien Sie nicht falsch
ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide
Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß
gegangen vor uns
ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut


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