7. Ausgabe - Februar 2026 / 7th Issue - February 2026


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DIE URNE

Gesicht, ein loser Überfluss an Haut 
                               verführungsfern

Gezeiten steingebrockt, 
                     zerschlissen Haut 
                                   vergeröllt,
ein Berg, der 
               Hunger verrät. 

Was will diese Krümmung des Rückens 

       …wie eine Autobahnplanke: dünn, 

         unscheinbar, uns nur sagen? 

die Schulter       weint 

               schlaff, ekelhaft  
        tröpfelt ihr Sehnen

        in meinen
 wartenden
 Mund. 


***


Annecy

I lost St Christopher somewhere near Annecy
or left him, I can’t say,
between the swells and bows of clifftops and mature leaves,
far from the sea, closer to the sky.
    
Christopher, can you find me in the hush?
Moss clings to each footfall as if to keep me still,
Yet I move on, unguarded,
Your small bright faith slipped from me,
Or I slipped from it.
    
I stumble when roadside lights touch me,
lost further at signposts pointing home.
The gravel grates like a reminder of a path begun,
a task inherited, half-undone.
    
The wind lifts the larch needles,
In their scattering, I feel both called and cast out.
Nature opens itself like an origin I can’t return to,
a beauty that beckons, a quiet that refuses me.
    
Christopher, I trace your shadow along the cliffs’ curve.
Guidance flares and dims; I know it will not be found.
Still, in the crisping air, I feel the weight
of what was once asked of me.
    
Within her thin salt,
I sit and rest,
not absolved, not condemned,
but paused between what I left and what I lost.
    
Perhaps I’ll see you
    
when the sun touches down.


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