At home in sugar-beet fields,
Sternickel,
a Wilhelmine murderer,
stony, how was it
with the bags of pepper,
the pursuers rubbing
their eyes, everywhere the
springs are failing, I want to
believe my Heine grandmother,
who was good at making things up
and knew her way with devil’s thread,
looked out the godparents,
kept raw eggs in the cupboard, I
owe her some of my aversions,
for instance to
sunrises and sunsets,
and that whole
vehicular splendor,
a Madame Pompadour,
as she said, she preferred
safety matches.