DIN

DIN

Ein Aug,

:;:

Eigentlich

:;:

cut the wor(l)d from our

skull, a way left

:;:

in silence, here

a scratch, a battered

notebook, too much

unloved, the white of

god’s eye, another moon

of this wor(l)d, an
other year of fakes,

an unfinished list

:;:

mit weiss

MIT WEISS

we cannot ache or 

imagine—we craft our

shoes of tin.

even that rude

clatter cannot

satiate our hunger

for din.