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89 BARBARA HUNDEGGER OUT OF ENDINGS: FROST 1 we still stand on one, two legs. we breathe and chatter about lust. we fear even in dreams we’re lacking papers. and no one wants to hear about atrophied breasts. we still weep one, two tears, we drive, we promptly click on heart. we stop. our heads are swimming. no one has pled. but each hums tunes she knows till ready to drop. we still scream one, two times for our life, at work, in bed, or on the phone. from throats gummed up with gutterals. then vanish into some European john. 2 when seeing simultaneous trenches is as for others cosmic vertigo. every third day as i walk down forgotten stairs because you’ve always counted, always wrong. one is not followed Translated by Rosmarie Waldrop 90 by two, and what comes after, no one knows. labels are riddles, close on your heels trails nothing. and the little stroll for air’s no longer called for where everything’s ludicrous. your heart may wince at night. your head’s surrounded yet no one in sight. and the child brings silent wounds that tremble sleeping in your hands. 3 and the sea only up to our feet now. predictable waves. unless: i jump in. and the trees only ankle high now. thin soughing rustling. unless: this raging wind. and the mirror with only the truth now: you and your trembling between this page and this. 4 days that will end in the end: what’s that. the woman without fame, without house, without an image for the next day. others invent the minutes. the paycheck tells how you smell. bottles mount up 91 and papers. a muddle all that counts. sums are discussed in beds. secret calculations occupy heads. and evenings you bite, at odds with yourself, into what’s called a tomato and turn out the chichi lights on your bottomless house. 5 today however ropes turn to blades, in poses hang caught our whirls, courageous screws take a downward turn, and i shake as the pavement comes rushing toward me. one more joke, and everything totters. today however peaks are passé, the slopes are coughing with fog, icy tongues bite into scree, and i pack climbing irons to scale you. one more suspicion, and everything comes. however today the heavens are tired, flights lie rolled up in a ball, and drafty air hones rickety heights. i cover up gift storms with boxes, the cards and poppy. one more sound, and we will cry. ...


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pp. 89-91
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