What is wanted
is
small lantern illumination
that lets a person see
in sharp relief
the edge
the threshold
the limit
the distance,
lets them roll
the whispers
and,
incidentally,
reveal
what it is
they have made.
Is it too much to ask?
Apparently,
side shows
are
the main event -
this peacock has been sent
to broadcast
temperatures from
around the world,
but is now Morse tapping
to Control
that the subject has shrunk
in order to facilitate his
scissor-marching
the puny distance
to his hideaway rock.
Best blame the self,
work ones charm,
and continue with
construction.
Condensed soup is a poetic image.
Rain beats down in grey waves across the hills,
Raindrops drip off branches at my window.
I read my invitation to Marburg.
To speak there at the University.
To warn the assembled crowd of Herr Schwein.
And Herr Teufel who lived in a modest way,
Neither thick nor thin, stupid nor clever.
His friend Herr Tod who refused a pension
Preferring instead to gather up souls.
He'd appear, the smarmy bastard, right there,
Today I am an awful hallion.
To tell me that it was my time to leave.
And the doctor dances in the white room
Such a trite, enigmatic thing to say.
Herr Schwein, Herr Teufel, Herr Tod --
Three garrulous fellows in the shadow
At the red palace in central Rastatt
At the appointed time, in noon day heat
When the moon's rays burnt ciphers into the flesh
The sun was nowhere at all to be seen.
The bitter stain of starlight in the rain.
