The ground always moved in a curious rush;
if you placed your ear on the ground, it infallibly got moved
and slightly moist on the edges.
A sound would be stuck in the ear when you picked it up;
the clatter of wood against stone (that`s somebodys clogs
on the terrace),
the soughing of skin against wool (virtually unknown),
the whispers of air to air,
the pathetic snuffle of butting hedge hogs
(you were once a hedge hog too, but you`ve forgotten about that)
and the unbaptized sound of nightly rainclouds seducing
the August moon;
there was always a certain distance between the croquet bows;
the croft not yet desert; beach balls thudding against your
loneliness; there was a
grass spot on your steady respiration.
Now the two-stroke barn doors bang
the perfect rhythm of afterlife.
You know it – desolation is dead,
skinlessness has grown too strong for
the sleep you possibly forgot in the rocking attic darkness.
Ödehoburga is so far
– you know that if you put your ear on the ground
it will disappear
in the pounding lack of questions.