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Read Poems by Ph.d Volo Von Wolfenstein

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RFH

Perhaps because I
have no sense, nor
character,
nothing deeper is
established nor
disestablished,
no webs are weaved
or untangled with
wit or metaphor,
the body desires
nothing, but
 the ultimate
give-up

- waiting for sleep,
the waiting,
waiting, what
will give up of what
of which is
established -

when there is sleep,
the poison grips
nightshade,
there is no falter
of words, but a calm
lilt of head, a
kilter, tilting
thoughts to bed.
Watch unyielding
yielding no:
there is no
space/time. 0
movement-

I am of the black
arts, a lit candle
well-off into the
evening,
there are no winds
to carry me
Eastward, not to the
Black Forest,
nor where we lost
our lives.

There is nothing
here, an empty
pitcher of milk, the

white porcelain
already shattered
and loved back on
the table,
this image flickers
and I can feel the
loss of heat in all
limbs,
only the living
crave blood.

Of nothing good,
there is nothing
speculative, it is
dismissed
and unscrutinized,
it remains perfect
in its imperfection,
a round
palpable solid
grasped in the hand
of Adam.

There is no fear,
but fear of waste,

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