#434 (caressing the clasp)

How Schiller turned

his head and found a secret

garden. How the icelandic poet

Jóhann Jónsson fled just before

they took over and set the world

on fire. How we honour the victims

with an invisible synagogue, rows

of chairs, stones and air.

Most don’t dare to try them, the

fear of rememberance looming

like the orb-weaver spider

netting on a lamppost. The linden

trees keep calling back into the past

the place where wild horses roamed

and the alluvial forest was the centre

of their universe. We keep forgetting

our dreams, how could anyone expect

us to look further? Pandora’s smile

is crooked, her fingers caressing the



© Matthias Geh, 19th July 2018

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