a brook of paint and cardboard,
batch of legs , bells and rings
running torso of burnt faces;

teeth and horns, black with hair
spit of the night and cold stars;

they have rented justice with
rhymes that fall like stones

ist des wahr ? ja, wahr ist

trump, um, um
do no ald, trrr
umph ! umph !
trump...****, ****

silent under loam
your hand charcoal
squeezing the dark
between the stars,

you hide

under our feet,
a fouled stick, skin
we are heavy
along cow ways

you are there,
always here, you
trouble stones and evening

from outside a nest of light
warm with steam and quilt
and slippers worn with steps;
a kitchen ship and dad crunching

when I think of this
i nearly say i miss you

einen sommer lang
i heard you growing
but now you carry words
in your pockets

a child is a poem
you read the next day

a giddy wainscot, a torn curtain
that big-flowered raises the dust
you left stern-legged this place

and left me at a broken window
so please do not turn around

tracks and rain
the leaving

leaving and rain
the track that takes you
now in winter

a winter of leavings

a rain of tracks
now the rain
the rain