How the air bubbles emerge from the oils Poem by Claudia Gabler

How the air bubbles emerge from the oils and no one

knew where to put that horny hand. We just wanted


spectator, but talked about the heat. How coy to

simply refer to the refreshment in the garden


or the German hedges (it was just only the neighbor's garden).

How we stepped onto the patio with flip-flops.


The bright red cherries the blackbirds picked away at

in the shadow of the oaks, it could resist a single moment.


So how much plastic still has to melt till the compound

is finally shut down? How many languages could you


use to count where went into the sun here? Then we

searched in the hidden corners of the dangerously close


adjacent atelier for all the portfolios and glasses as protection

against their tongues. We always knew that you have talent, but


whether those were humans who ran around in that

area? The denizens' panic was demonstrated in their


consumption of cigarettes (even though it was just a warehouse

here that was in flames). They forgot their jackets and caps


in the apartments, the little packets with pigments

danced in the air as if they were weightless.


Translated by Bradley Schmidt