To Max von Esterle
Black skies of metal.
In the evening hunger-maddened crows
Blow slantwise through red storms
Over parks sorrowful and sallow.
A sunbeam freezes to death in the clouds;
And before Satan's curses
They turn within the circle and go
Down sevenfold in number.
In putrefaction sweet and stale
Their beaks mow noiselessly.
Houses threaten from mute proximities;
Brightness in the theater hall.
Churches, bridges, and hospitals
Stand grimly in the twilight.
Blood-stained linens billow
Like sails upon the canal.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt