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thanksgiving poetry

seien Sie nicht falsch
hoch-getragenes Rennen
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
wer der Läufer in den Himmeln ist
welches hält
ich stand
Kerzen, die seitlich in den Tomatedosen stürzen
Melancholie, Blau war sie
von Fußboden zu Decke
wie ich innen roofed liege, innen aussortiert
schreckliche Wahrheiten diese sind
einige windigere Tage
auf und ab geht ihn


 



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