der Tod ist ein Meister
Death is a Master
— Paul Celan, Todesfuge/Death Fugue

There was smoke rising, and the traffic moved slowly | Right, perhaps, today, and you may be safe, but left | who can guarantee anything? | To the right, we went, but | it was tomorrow | and there were helicopters, barricades | The weight of my body | grew upon me | those long summer days | I tended more easily | to love | We see the faces across the river | are very like our own | We know the roots lead in and down | to a heart | and from the raw | seed of the heart | a person trees out | how instantly | there are freckles, deltas | shacks on the banks of the river | the red colour | the makers call | Terre de Maroc | painted on the study’s | walls | a portrait of Mozart | the taste of her fingertips just after | she had peeled two oranges | the scent | of his breath, Marlboro | and peanut butter and cheap | white wine | The specific is | too touching | too close | to home | Cartoon the land | lemon groves | on top of the houses | temples where devils | preach and breed | tiny pink devils with eyes | of a glass blue | harder than piercing | No other place | one may run one’s flesh | take a long | vacation from the war | All is the same | the sentence | says | the same | words for children | We must look to the Master | within us | no | Master without | What? | the Lord | might say, clicking shut | his fan | Will you “must” me again? | Who needs, who wants | these bodies now? | under the stones, under the forest | branches | combed | the shadows in your dark hair, Mohammed, the shadows | in your dark hair, Naftali

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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