My fingernails grow; they reach the ceiling.

Docile black eyes stare out in terror.

Flashes of euphoria and passion for objects.

Trapped on the lips are sounds, like pearls of forts oceanate

The sound of pigeons in flight / is the everyday beauty of the sky.

the last name of the player / on the german team / translates into russian as / pig crawling up / a blond graceful creature

Of Wonder's songs the saddest / about the downfall of New York City

We exist on innumerable photographs. Whoever you areyou exist. In a country landscape there is no place

On virtual seasI surfrecklesslyin every shapethat I inventfor myselfomnipotentGod among GodsmercifullyI submergea vulnerablefatecreate the worldi seven secondsdisappearinto whoever’s storythat only the…

On the bottom of the seas                                                                      …

Soul, you are a street, leading into rain / from the outskirts full of dry leaves

Just gone to bed

I am / 9

Then with her hands / she’d crown her son’s head,

First, we will bury you in the sand,

Out of milk, out of strong skin jumps the big brother.

Half sleep / half death.

You don’t move on upon love, / you move on upon a territory.

Observe yourself in the mirror, / unchanged yet strange,

Listen / You who chew on my solitude

With fingers—fingertips and edge of nail— / he plots fires with tongues of snakes,

darling, when it comes to strawberries / you’re like me

The phone holds rumors of a sunken ship, / bubbles and silences.

Dead swans on purple waters

In that town there was a room I kept circling.

The reason is that they don’t remain clean

Danse avec moi baby under the stormy sky

A woman—I should say a stranger—who caresses you, jokes with you

invite people over. invite everyone.  to a feast.  a big feast.

Night / does not fall / nor does it come

You destroyed all letters. / You burned the heavenly garden.

gulls woke me

I walk toward the mill / To meet my quiet father

how many words do we need to make ourselves clear?

what would the savior have looked like / grown old?

we're in an epidemic: / we're creatures of swine flu la influenza porcina:

They've come straight from Utopia / Headquarters in Berlin-Lichtenberg

To awaken with her, this dream / to begin days, days full and ripe

They returned…

All along our Wooden Cross garden the peonies were dying. . .

Your friend sits on a pile of things, / As if a yellow star were on his chest,

Here come the animals, tame and wild: / Already it's problematic.

and so mopete has stopped in a bewitched interval of his soul,for him as if on a magic mountain where it’s snowing everywhere, whilemany just sit and gaze out the window, boring themselves, idlyelaborating…

mopete, listening as a friend of his quotes wassilykandinsky, has a strange vision, a figmentof his solitude—an ancienthypostasis, blotches without a trace of realitythrown upon the canvas on which, however,young…

vasilescu’s father’s friend has left the seaside togo to a monastery in the north. there in the mountainshe wants to empty his mind of thought until it comes to entertaina notion of that provisional…

vasilescu’s father’s friend is playing with a beach ball.tentatively, he throws it toward the sea, gathers it in the shadowcast by his body, not minding the waves at his feet nowbreaking against…

mopete went to the theatre today. he tooka girl, and vasilescu’s father’s friend saw him—called helloto him, too—mopete threw a meaningful, if tooobvious glance at the girl beside him, and…

For love of Chile, for love of all things/ from north to south, east and west

Spring this year arrived as clean / as if in its Sunday best,

he doesn't sing, he doesn't fly, he has no wings.

I learned the lines of this noun / one bright day in the classroom.

A blizzard lures us toward Poland, / bringing us almost to the border.

To leave the airport is to feel you've got off at the wrong stop.

We see so much that is strange.

I'll be opposite you, opposite you, lying prone.

gush of penumbra / anchored in the calm

I write my letter, it has no address other than my longing.

each time i dig into the well i never reach the bottom.

1A woman tells the Dollmaker.—What happens in your shopWhy do you spend all night and day in thereIt can’t be for the sake of moneyYou wouldn’t have time to spend it anywaySo why the work…

It's cold in Schlossberg. The stoves are full / of our nails and hairs.