of course everything’s wet through; slick
with wetness, from all the showings, from the
talk about farness, so to speak, a voice
fleece of advanced sweetness, in which our na-
mes are spoken, turmoil hair, ravaging
of brows, under the shadow, your shadow,
which I distinguish with my face (name);
wet hair off the hand, wrangling in the ordinances
of breath.
                          eyes and eye sockets. show,
show me, while the fitter guys outside
try to install their all-weather cladding.
tinkling, trembling room; our voices,
bodies thrust against each other. patches of light. gaze-
sheet.
              in wetness talking in tongues, assertive song, that
’s not too loud, is it? morning’s gold lacquer which
wanders over the encampment, a waste of palates, a shed
of the borders of the bodies of the voices. with that something
from the ghetto-blaster, announcer and song, exchanging
in the wet.
                                              voice fleece, my sweetness!
the spring: cadaver, lacquer tablet in the light, your hair, my star,
(inhale), is like a herd of goats (snare for dials), shorn smooth
on the mountain!, one has to, shown, keep it in front of one’s
eyes and allow it. lacquer tablet, timetable of bodies! of course,
a rose is natural: roses.
                                                                                bright shadow-stuff
of voices, now it’s raining, dripping, gold lacquer (as we said) of the
morning, so we say. the light now, of your eyes,
like a split in the pomegranate.