He looks lost within
his drippy blue windbreaker.
Spring Saturday, and not everything used
gets a second lease. A new life,
tender pale circle where the ring once was.
Twenty seconds,
colour of pale sand of Sahara.
One minute,
mudbrick houses of unknown tribes.
Two minutes,
the stains of dried blood after
murder in sacred places.
Five o’clock and American tourists
in tracksuits and ballcaps gather
beneath the glockenspiel clock in Munich’s Marienplatz.
It’s delight to wait for the towering timepiece to chime.
Somewhere, someone is mourning for the
body of a brilliant one.
Man or woman, it doesn’t matter.
The tears in this country, an entrance
to a void… shadows touching skin like frost.