(1)
every lakebed lies in a valley, a special cover protects it

from drops falling back into the cloud,

which reflects in the water.

to bury does not mean to cover something with a special air pillow in the proximity of the earth, when it

cools down, but rather

to store something in the crust of the peanut,

to extract a handful of earth from the lower mantel, which will find, right under the sod

its final resting

place.

to bury a mole by leaving it on the ground,

the air-raid shelter

wrapped with endless care in oil cloth, the industrial spinning factory,

the serial spindles i find while i'm wrapping

this.

aerial views miss whatever is lying on the grass beneath trees, which every year

turn green.

from the air lock the text of old, broken-off bits of thread

knotted and tangled together,

of the most varied sorts and colors

appears, vaguely.

WMDs in spoken speech will damage

the armoured hollow body, but they will barely

encumber the swingable containers

of the living quarters. the drone, in the autumn texture

of its people,

and also the gathered earth core, find in the empty and wounded pockets

close to the sod, a final resting place.

because we live,

already live in the eon of a hubble telescope, which epitomizes the concept of burial, we see

the fruit of the peanut

wrapped carefully in oil cloth,

seedling and witness of endless innocence.

Translation: Uljana Wolf