Those childhood afternoons so long gone by,

so lost: to ponder them would do much good.

Long afternoons that left us in childhood:

they never will come back. And why?

Their memory's with us still, perhaps in rain.

But we've forgot what meaning they were making.

Life never was so full — never again —

with meeting and reunion and leave-taking,

as when what happened, or what we could know,

happened to animals, to all creation.

We lived their world as human. Figuration

brimmed in us, about to overflow.

And we were like a shepherd all alone,

oppressed, borne down by distance, but then led

back, summoned, stirred from what had been long-gone,

then slowly woven in, like some new thread,

to figured tapestries where we'd been drawn

and where we'd be bewildered going on.

Der Dichter

Du entfernst dich von mir, du Stunde.

Wunden schlägt mir dein Flügelschlag.

Allein: was soll ich mit meinem Munde?

mit meiner Nacht? mit meinem Tag?

Ich habe keine Geliebte, kein Haus,

keine Stelle auf der ich lebe

Alle Dinge, an die ich mich gebe,

werden reich und geben mich aus.