Poets

The doctor phantom on the terrace. If you slip out of your shoes now will the serpent protect you or attack you? And what now. No

a Lunatica cobbled together from shorthand trunk and bones ; only as vocabulary Le Luxe von Bräuns supplied the milk for a

We're slipping away watering the nymph temperature conquering weak plant growth a calcified nomen in the drain the hip joints on Golden Rain! A sleepy, ticking egg. Would that you, woman, and we other erasers would meet the curses alertly and at the same time in slow motion. Let us gather scattered stubby platelets in the pockets of our white coats they'll yield lovingly nest exhausted and laying in phlegm still full of ether confused with heavenly poison alone and in one, their care. Which will help us in a more terrible time. Having come through, softer to permanence. While heated teenie choirs race through space blindly petrifying in fright of the sun - it's brighter than you think! - and themselves. The charred ones. Shorn of all but tentacles they wave to their relations and tap keys to each other: seahorse, seahorse, you perhaps the glowing heat was another way of being taken away Poet's Note: another way of being taken away From the farewell note of a young women which once came into my hands. Translated by Catherine Hales