Trees on the horizon Poem by Mirko Bonné

Go
strangely
without leaving, without arriving
from threshold to threshold

a prefabricated shoot grows
under the glass of your wrist-watch
trees of hours
marching through sameness

with bated breath

the woman on the lead admits
the crookedly patched-together
clothes of her neighbour to be the incarnate
idea of her madness

Go
thus
the trees
hang on the horizon

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser & Gabriel Rosenstock