Planting dead trees.
Scarecrows in the great wide fields
deter the skeletons of birds.
Watch me undress,
I won’t stop at my skin.
Why don’t you watch me?

The beauty salon is busy.
In the tanning salon,
Vittorio in goggles sprawls.
They have left their guns with the concierge.
Police photograph the victims;
later, the police will be victims.

Mice scoot around silver
cutlery on the banqueting table;
later, they rot.
In the seminar room,
we rearrange the bones,
take out eyes and change their colour,
replace them with replicas of glass,
shoo assassins from the giant malls:
we wonder about our bodies.

The graves are clean:
the wombs are clean, too.
Chevrolet will be big this year.
On freshly mown lawns
we chat and flirt
in the new, young sunshine.
It’s all still good, right? Everything remains
essentially as before?

Aircraft taxi on the runways,
the airspace is lush and free.
There are many journeys to be taken,
but no journeys given back.
Eating wax apples.
A picnic with still squirrels.
Note the brushwork.

What is wrong with this society,
no revolution in the air?
We’ll take in a film,
walk by the river,
no trains of Jews,
but the swan, motionless,
and the water
in secret motion.

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