Lyrik | Poetry
Holzmachen Du hackst und schichtest
Scheit um Scheit
ich schichte Sätze
Wort an Wort
gegen die Kälte
kommender Winter.


Leerzeilen Mache mich kleinlaut
weise keinem den Weg
von hier nach da

Was ich zu bieten habe
hält keinen auf

Das Schweigen
zwischen den Worten
fällt mir jetzt leichter




Grace Notes All I hear
is snow dropping
from beech trees
my breathing


Autumn Depression Even in grief
the eye does not stop
beholding
what is beautiful
rosehips gleaming
redly next to blue
sloe plums
in a wet foliage
of autumn shrubs

I would like to lie
down in all that --
wet moss and nettles,
ragged ferns --
protected from the wild
rummaging winds
amid the grace
of late campanula,
St. John's wort.


Sunday Morning I wake up to sunlight
spilling all over the bed
and the calliopic song
of vireos flooding the room.
Bees seethe on the window sill.
My tongue grazes along the fuzz
of sleep on my teeth. I reach
to stroke your morning rhizome
hard as habit, but you're still
sleep-flushed, straddling
daylight and dream. Wake up
wake up, I want to say
while you breathe sour-breathed
morning in my face, albeit lovingly.
Bees and vireos tattoo a rhythm
that puts me back to sleep
and slowly I give in to slide
into my dreams again,
girdling the Earth.