a slice of ham,
potato rinds,
a glob of jam,
beer bottle caps.
Inside this drum
there’s other stuff:
a blouse that’s torn,
a hiker’s thumb,
two clips of porn,
hardcore and snuff.
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I turn the stony corner
Today I am a mourner.Crows circle garbage binsbeyond the iron gate;two magpies poach hairpins;a sparrow comes too late,then flees the treasure chest.I move on, and I wait.It is here she will restbeneath the silt and sand,her headstone facing west.And still, I can’t withstandthe power of my grief.A tree can’t understandthe falling of its leaf.
After a long night of interrogation,
there was no doubt about it: I was guilty.So with my teeth tucked in my bleeding mouth,and with my jaw now wired tightly shut,a guard named Peter met me at the gate.Looking different than I had imagined,he smiled and kicked me point blank in the balls,then led me like a drunkard down the stairs.The long…
I look down, see there’s a new bank
the summer of 1934.It was a place where Germans dranktheir märzen, pilsner, kölsch. The buzzof saws in their ears, they would lookout windows on the raised ground floor,at ducks on the canal, a rookatop a branch. The barges passedweighed down with lumber, coal, and steelon to the Oder railway line.They drank as long as moments…
We went down to the market.
was soft and ivory white,your eyes two jewels brightbeneath gold locks of hair,flowers in April air.We walked where loving led,and did not look ahead.We did not see the hensheadless on the fence,the quartered hogs on hooks,the butcher’s angry looks,the crones with wizened handsbehind the tulip stands,their thin grey hair unmade,their eyes lit dim from trade,devoid…
Here where this graveyard comes to a sudden end
yet sometimes at night a nova calls you friend,and the moon itself recalls your rise and fall.
(Gleiwitz,1946)
closed since the Germans left the neighbourhood,crumbles in the pouring acid rain.Above, no bells toll for its dead; but stainupon stain marks the stones where Mary’s scarfrests at the bare feet of its heavy rood.