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family poetry

was spiteful Wahrscheinlichkeit unawares stiehlt
Vögel gegen den Aprilwind
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
gibt es jedes dort
wenig Park, den ich durch führe
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
die auf das Oberseite sagen, daß sie Sie, Masse kennen -- sie sind Lügner
sie sagte
unter meinem Fenster in einer Stadtstraße
ich sah die archangels in meinem Apfel-Baum gestern Abend
in die Dunkelheit und Frieden meinem abschließenden Betts

 



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