Barefoot I walk in front of the Deutsche Bank
and speak of the ribbed man—
the ribbed man surprises in the morning
before a plot full of bones
the pitiful harmony
of futility and bird twitter
the ribbed man sees
how life moves its bristles
he sees how the bones put out roots
and boil over
how futility sits down among its beloved
rocks and sings
he looks into the bowl of his cupped hand
looks at the spun threads
and reads: Jan 97. In Grüningen.
Nothing but pain.

Translated by Donna Stonecipher