An uncertain time after Patmos
/we heard and remained: the islands
won't come they won't
wait at the light-blue
twilight
you step your foot
on culture dry as milk
we wait and we drink
to dance, spirits and lose the snow
hiding our purpose. if you had the dead
flowers in your hairskin rendezvous
with the past, if you wait
and it comes with the golem
we wrote, some giotto
criminal with the word
no one speaks– eleven stars
from marburg, each god
pathetic, just like schubert
would have wanted it.
who is the third, the false
beginning? sometimes in seas
of ghosts turned athletes
a fire flows downwards, graceful.