is for headlines heralding
“Millions Paralyzed By Child Murderer,”
mooned over by masses, snatching
nastily, too-quick at the newspaper boys.
Empty stairwells spell out what
the coming and going of three o’
clock winked at with its bird eyes,
cuckoo—where is little Elsie?
His hands become bags of candy
his voice swans against her skin
taut with fat—little girl’s hot breath
and hair-smell of bread and licorice.
She’s
holding
the
bags of candy
little hands struggling with balloons
little minds untested by centuries
beforehand- locked doors?
what are we now—barbarians?
“Berlin—City of Strangers?”
what is it—hysteria
the thing in the streets—it’s everybody
-He wore a brown coat- I remember
distinctly.
-It was blue, double-breasted,
with a red kerchief- I’m sure of it!
-I don’t really remember-
but his hat had a small green feather…
His eyes bulge fatly at the seams,
threatening to burst with justice.
He’s cancerous with innocence
as he holds her hand, guiding two
lithe thighs along the lake.
We don’t even see a little blood
as he silences her behind the tree-line-
just the balloon squat, perpendicular
against year-old power-lines
as it meanders upwards.
Die ist echt saftig—
They want to know who the murderer is-
he’s in the window, marqueed by flatware,
drawing the calyx of his lips down
in the shape of knees inward-turning,
mary-janes scuffed at the toes—
