Aug 2018
shrapnel of a black heart
they pick at worm-strings,
pulling out curves from
the green above the sleepers,
like punks they barge and
rotate like bits of children
while I stutter in grief and ice;
bricked in, walled up, dead down.
they pick at worm-strings,
pulling out curves from
the green above the sleepers,
like punks they barge and
rotate like bits of children
while I stutter in grief and ice;
bricked in, walled up, dead down.
another poem about my son, missing presumed dead near Garmisch, in Bavaria after a walking accident in the mountains
(63/M/Germany)
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