The spring

In the irrevocable

melting you dragged

yourself like a deserter

along the bloodtrail,

so this is the last day

of winter, you asked

arriving in a clearing

where snowflowers bloomed

from mud patches, but still

the wind bore the smell of carrion,

so this would be my past,

the chattering branches,

the red dots on white background,

and you spotted

from behind a bush a deer

emerging to appease its thirst,

and saw as it bent forward

the wound bleeding from its side,

you lowered your rifle

and stepped closer,

so this is the spring of my future,

and it said yes,

and it looked upon you.

The wife

Baffling, that light still

fell inside

the garden, for the sky

had already turned

dark, as an unfamiliar

fat lady approached

in your dream,

spread her arms

and embraced you,

almost scratching your skin

with her nails, but

I don’t know you

you said, drawing

away, oh, yes

you do, she replied,

I am your wife,

then you searched

the last patches

of sunlight and quickly, 

from last night,

hung out the bloody sheets.

The girl

After the women disappeared

along with the limbs of

children lolling

from the holes in their prams,

after the runners finished

their final laps, and the park’s

shadows still had not

enclosed you, suddenly

you felt you’re not alone,

and recognized her

as carefully she stepped

from her hiding of juniper,

the hydrocephalic girl

whose desolate skeleton

you’d seen earlier that day

in the Narrenturm asylum,

what are you doing here,

you asked, startled,

and speechlessly

walked beside her

all the way home.