At first it was only like a weary
Moth, which crawled over the last houses. 
Now it is a black bleeding hole. 
It has already buried the city and half the sky. 
Ah, had I flown—­
Now it is too late. 
My head falls into
Desolate hands. 
On the horizon an apparition like a shriek
Announces
Terror and imminent end.

The Sick

Evening and grief and lamp light
Bury our death-face.

We sit at the window and drop out of it,
Far off day still squints at a gray house. 
We scarcely touch our life... 
And the world is a morphine dream... 
Blinded by clouds the sky sinks. 
The garden expires in dark wind—­
The watchmen enter,
Lift us up into bed,
Inject us with poison,
Kill the lamp. 
Curtains hang in front of the night... 
They disappear gently and slowly—­
Some groan, but no one speaks,
Our buried face sleeps.

Cloud

A fog has destroyed the world so gently. 
Bloodless trees dissolve in smoke. 
And shadows hover where shrieks are heard. 
Burning beasts evaporate like breath.

Captured flies are the gas lanterns. 
And each flickers, still attempting to escape. 
But to one side, high in the distance, the poisonous moon,
The fat fog-spider, lies in wait, smoldering.

We, however, loathsome, suited for death,
Trample along, crunching this desert splendor. 
And silently stab the white eyes of misery
Like spears into the swollen night.

The City

A white bird is the big sky. 
Under it a cowering city stares. 
The houses are half-dead old people. 
A gaunt carriage-horse gapes grumpily. 
Winds, skinny dogs, run weakly. 
Their skins squeel on sharp corners. 
In a street a crazed man groans:  You, oh, you—­
If only I could find you... 
A crowd around him is surprised and grins derisively. 
Three little people play blind man’s bluff—­
A gentle tear-stained god lays the grey powdery hands
Of afternoon over everything.

The World

(Dedicated to a clown)

Many days tread upon human animals,
In gentle oceans hunger-sharks fly. 
Heads, beers glisten in coffee-houses. 
Girls’ screams shred on a man. 
Thunderstorms come crashing down.  Forest winds darken. 
Women knead prayers in skinny hands: 
May the Lord God send an angel. 
A shred of moonlight shimmers in the sewers. 
Readers of books crouch quietly on their bodies. 
An evening dips the world in lilac lye. 
The trunk of a body floats in a windshield. 
From deep in the brain its eyes sink.

Prophecy