Fictions Disguised as Autobiography
Der Tod ist uns
Bahnhof
Diese Reise nach
der Stille ist ganz
Lärm, Licht, Dunkel
Fresst, pinkelt, döst
Beruf und Befehl
sind uns Wünsche
Anleitung Umleitung
Bitte, steigt
jetzt um
***
Don’t ask me why I am trying to write poems in German. (I think of it as something of a translation of this.)
In that forest too sad for birds,
the indigenous have nothing but color.
They squat by the road in indigo
skirts, wrapped in rainbow shawls.
The courtyards of tourist hotels
hold flocks of wing-clipped macaws.
In their cages, too sad for words,
the quetzals are nothing but color.