Der Mann ward
zum Sieb,
in the particular, leaf rattling,
autumnal chill, deceit settles
to the bare ground, waiting to be
stir-
red up by your comings and go-
ings, fine particles for you to
inhale and filter, becoming, at last,
the machine for forgetting that
god
meant you to be—
less tender, as the waiting begins,
for the world to freeze.
No comments:
Post a Comment