1233
18.v.23
4.138
everything we touch
poem at Câmplung, in Bukovina
becomes a
kind of filth
we are the
ones who believed ourselves other
talked
ourselves into and out and on
smoke rises from
us
hear the
whistle blow
where we lie
down, a stain
humans, I
mean
we walk into
things
you could
easily stumble, go under
it must have
been so with those before
once fruit
fell at our feet
even in the
snow, our leavings
an axe
through the head of the forest
a cross saw,
the body in half
that was us and
is
the winecart
comes
a moment’s
joy
ladder –
timber as clouds are
and the guns
daguerreotype
what fine
moustaches!
the lowing
fields of dung
all our own
work
he and he –
all that was done
and she,
like a shame indoors
ladling
smoke
sadly gone
we make our iron
tracks through the green
bare limbs
call
ourselves winter
the house is
a head
it won’t
matter
how fast,
how slow
anyone with
sense would tremble
drunks shout
up and down the train
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