12 Storkwinkel, Berlin

death’s play has twisted your features    no longer people
remember one cry of a frail child’s laughter and dread
the entranceway is empty    the tree is a column of incense
September is escorting the whole world’s gold coins
follow a common eccentricity and polish the brass numbers
a staircase scenario    an exaggerated hat in a room
an unexceptional age stands tall and straight
pinching the ocean to pieces, the wind waits    blood    never children’s stories

only    the restored virtue of the dead still walks the road home
withered blades of falling leaves quietly cut down the autumn
one letter’s unexceptional lies    your names
slyly swap with ours    the ghost is an old photograph
masterpieces know all too well how to cook human faults
touch up a star chart in the hollows of the children’s palms
whoever hides in the sound of the wind    never fall again into black oysters of feet
die now    a poem is the only address worth resurrecting