step outside the door and you can already
pass through, enter and exit again,
see first hand a world of its own
as another creation story,
the wasteland and agglomeration
separated very precise, skyline, subtle,
chalkboard, hairy stars, in contrast,
conspicuous thunder thistle land, what
hasn't escaped to the meadows?
blooming communities down the slope
fleet of foot, nothing but invented entities
full of light-hunger choking pendants,
speaking all heaven's three languages,
left to themselves where nature proliferates
with its pounds, only procreation
out of love, whatever it loves:
the unpredictable, in parceled
wilderness of abandoned gardens, flamed
and mottled, flowers of colors,
self-suppliers without forethought, who
would raise a sorbus to its own tree
nature and set it into such an authentic
bucking wave that it continues growing
and off from a piece of wood,
down the river main? the spring horizon
on fallow ground, encircled by sinkholes, channels,
may well be, the mountains melt
like wax, the location Germany
moves when the encroaching sand
desires and the emery in the world's
fabric of meaning - searches for the point that carries you.

Translated by Bradley Schmidt