Dream Song 41: If we sang in the wood (and Death is a German expert)

 If we sang in the wood (and Death is a German expert)
while snows flies, chill, after so frequent knew
so many all nothing,
for lead & fire, it's not we would assert
particulars, but animal; cats mew,
horses scream, man sing.


Or: men pslam.
 Man palms his ears and moans.

Death is a German expert.
 Scrambling, sitting,
spattering, we hurry.

I try to.
 Odd & trivial, atones
somehow for my escape a bullet splitting
my trod-on instep, fiery.


The cantor bubbled, rattled.
 The Temple burned.

Lurch with me! phantoms of Varshava.
 Slop!
When I used to be,
who haunted, stumbling, sewers, my sacked shop,
roofs, a dis-world ai! Death was a German
home-country.

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