Walked up Auerstrasse, through the building site and forgot to take note
of which way I had gone - no thread, winding in like a tightening screw like
persuasion, until the town was no longer fastened in fibres. Fever land, cyber land,
cut off, was hardly a destination, for anxiously staying put.

A cemetery, in it a theatre, the old ladies still mothy, swathed
in their housecoats. Hats of the ravens. Their discordant conference, wreathed
number on number about the ivy tomb. But their fluttering turned to dust (I admit
that I let out a sob).

Sensitive spectre. Afterwards only the single feathers from the hat, which were
not feathers, and fluttered on to the tombstone, which was a tombstone, and
so on, but forever, unrelated in the rumble garden of absence
into which I dissolved.

The clinic of broad daylight outside the walls a chalking-up of sober
time of day. Gauze and wheel bearings took over the lead, the car showroom, in the
wall of a bridge, offered coffee. ‘Take a seat, that close and wings
genuine! This skin is an animal for slaughter, well-stocked, coupling without
obligation and here, the plastic button tames what you say - you say! Are you
listening at all? Are you listening? Not a sound, now you can please get lost.'