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poems

ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau
hoch-getragenes Rennen
dieses ist das Arsenal
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
sie sprengte fierce Wein
wenn Nacht entlang den Straßen der Stadt treibt
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
wenn ich zurück zu Masse gehe
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
es war der Herbst des Jahres

 



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