Haindling
Cave painting
In onion broth
Every day for breakfast he eats
his vinegar-sour pork knuckles
in onion broth. In a thin trickle
Sweat runs out of the hat,
down the side of his face and into his collar.
He needed a lot, talked
incessantly, or left his doubts
and fears, and hoped
for some miracle, or
a salvation, in that someone else
told him what he had to do,
hoped for inspiration from others,
who readily prompted him,
without being aware that they were doing the same thing.
At the same time, on another
The air stands still and a
sun fights its way to the earth.
Dull and pale and without whole.
The forehead of the moon is bleeding.
>One palm torn open,
a dirty piece of life rises up
and rubs away at diseased bark
rotten. A body without a soul
dawns away in a brown trickle.
The lips are stuck with oil and stammer.

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