Sparrow, inconsistent, sees
large ribbons of ink veil empty lines,
a broken pulse of thought,
the tongue I’ve lost.
Sparrow laughs, Wer bist du?
Rivulets of veins;
her eyes like a moon tangled in trees,
and a sleep jaw.
She is the innocent thrust from my body,
like lungs deflating,
tumbling over the drain.
My birth is weak. My birth is rot.
Aber mich, Sparrow,
I am blank.
No comments:
Post a Comment