Poetry

Lying in the Grass

Something knocks.
The darkness waits
outside, a breakup like a spider
spinning cobwebs in the corners,
draping furniture like linen,
like the falling apart of
cobblestone streets,
red brick mansions
on Beacon Hill with
no heirs, not even a gardener—
the gentlemen have all
booked flights overseas,
young Spanish women in Alicante,
ex-wives drowning in hard-earned
pensions, savings, the green
thermal clang of silver.
The rash opulence of deceit,
mirage of kisses, of warm
biscuits with orange juice—
How I dislike October,
loneliness like a chestnut
lying in the grass.

Merano, Italy
October 15, 2026

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Dare

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Nun zu den Unseren