In the corner of the field
Breathing, aided by shoots and stems
Erupting to flower, now for their chance
Before they're picked at the last gasp
Like Walser's body, picked by birds in the snow
See this through bottle green panes
Lurk in the outhouse
The earth might stretch and shift
Near the half hidden steps...
Now pull a hand up, drag the weight
Eyes upturned into the air
Opening doors deep in the halls
Lost,
Clicking cogs signal the change
Somewhere inside a lift
Cranks up into action
Do not want even a relation or ghost of this
To raise with or raid with the dead
Lonely - keep away from the house at night
Stay in the fields, watch the body
Help me... drag it home in the morning
wrought iron gates bear the vultures' weight,
roost above the runic message -
beginning an end -
work makes free -
their guards swim in the River Lethe
sense no evil as they cram innocents
into their machines
grinding them to death.
mouthless, silent statues
imitate life,
inhale the noxious odors,
brush the stinging ashes like dandruff from their shoulders.
while emptied beings
warped musselmen,
mark their serpentine passage
in the mud,
aimlessly dragged about,
mashed into dust.
hazy memories.
vultures persist
coddle the message -
linger with their young
untouched by ghosts
in their safe havens
where clocks tick endlessly
and the callow suckle at their breasts.
work makes free -
