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romantic poetry

Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
wenig Park, den ich durch führe
geschaukelt in die Aufnahmevorrichtung vom tiefen
die Bögen der roten Brücke
bleiben Sie nicht mehr
dieses ist das Arsenal
mit den meek, braunen Augen
wenn der Schleier von den Augen angehoben wird
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
es gibt eine Stunde des ruhigen Restes
weich als das Bett in der Masse
gegangen die drei, jene seltenen Schwestern
hatten er und i aber getroffen


 



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