FÜR 6 HÄNDE

FÜR 6 HÄNDE

cold faced, you
swallow a smile,
you break off
an icicle, jagged
eyed, murderous in
your kindness, your
moth eaten faith.

some stranger faced
beast walks past,
and you brace,
wound up with
chill and friendly
malice, ghastly, fractured
but claiming the

whole of all,
a land you
have seen once,
before the snow
cloaked it, a
place to sow
teeth, should the
ground ever thaw.

DER MANN WARD ZUM SIEB

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.