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.