I’m sick of prodding the infinite,
Sick of how it teases
Back, flashing a breast or
Consolation of days
But, how abandon the project?
This view in retrospect
Of flesh overspent: my food, my name,
Und das Wetterhorn, in erste sonne,
Clouds tangled still
In the peaks like vague
Thoughts. The church bell
Clanging noon won’t stop, iron in my chest—
Du, God-weight, bitte—Shut up!
No. So I go
Out in the street where the people
Going about their business
Under mountains that could kill us
With a shrug.