Refugees
What is left if nothing’s left? The tap loses teeth-blood, Each empty cup smiles with malice. We have fallen over the fence, Our pictures torn, a history in bags, We walk like a cluster of wraiths As dull legs trudge over stones. The old will wither with frost When the night comes sooner. And if the children cry in the night There is nothing more to say Than that the stars are hungry...
Read MoreLost Time
So at some point you start to notice the difference that makes this single; a sparrow on a fallen wall, the first change of glass to drops of water, loam broken from under in a garden’s warmer corner. You start to hold the finite a coin minted and shaped, held for a last time, then spent as your body; the past like the hidden part of an iceberg; lost in...
Read MoreBaby
A small locked heart, webbed and half fish or a netted bird; swan and wings drinking brewed tears; unfinished as a jot, ready to shatter the cage, a shout locked in a box. The first chapter; a story full of air.
Read MoreThe Lost Poem
Shoved in a jacket, a folded heart, a breakage of notes about the body fascism. Nach Auschwitz ein Gedicht zu schreiben ist barbarisch. So sing then a song about Oswiecim, about the ice on the Sola, about Silesian firs, tell the story of a train hanging under stars, late from Hannover. Tell me in hushed tones about a hole in a roof, about rushed concrete, about the sinking to ash. Then throw this poem into the sun. No paper can carry this...
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