flutter

those are
the storms the blind
ends of winter the
equinox pushes
deep into my heater my temper
is feverish with heating wind
ties the ends the fear
of one born an aristocrat
in my walls concrete a tearing
and tearing these days
my name is annette

isn’t
it good when waking
waxes under the sun
nothing can remain
hidden the sea hare
sits in my braids the same
as a well behaved child
I call through my walls
it penetrates like: tower
everyone knows
I am protected waving
to my concrete coiffure

or dawn

my hand is a dead fish in the morning
it drifts on your chest
sideways the night made
a heron take wing

my eyes two swinging canoes in
the short waves of daylight a dead
fish lies on your chest like a nightmare l
ike a fish out of water you gasp twitch
back from the brothers the one
is called sleep they
paddle with strokes in unison they
tie a sparkling string
drop for drop into the river

my hand is a dead fish
in the morning silver the scales in the rushes
uncaught it swashes on your chest
on the bank the rushes bide their time

heading home

once upon a time it was so late we
arrived at an interim time and contact
broke off in the pause of space

böhlen came in ground fog it appeared
an unreachable magnificently poisonous star
we let ourselves be drawn in

through shuttle windows we looked
familiar answer signals a lighting
in slices lighting

heated the pitch-black atmospheres
consisting in equal parts of
pvc neon and activist’s

dederon sweat night shift for night shift
we traversed our inner-space instruments
went crazy a chronometer indicated

a preference for the number eighty-one
we grew smaller and smaller and no
radar screen called for us