Halme Der Nacht

She combs her hair, like the dead are combed,

She carries the blue fragments under her robe.

She bears the fragment-world on a single skein.

She knows the words, but she only beams.

She mixes her smile in the glass of wine:

She must drink it, to exist in the world.

You are the photograph, where her fragments are seen,

When she leans toward making of life some meaning.excerpt from the poem