Kafka Never Wrote a Thing
He twisted a ring out of rye grass
And bedded her down
Where the willow roots made them a bower of sorts.
If he’d known, if he’d known, if he’d known,
She’d be gone by December,
He would have changed nothing
Except the weather.
The weather had been unremarkable.
Concerning the delicate undertones of her breasts
He felt no need to say a word
So he left those stories to themselves
And never felt the wild delight of dying thirst
Drawing pages from his throat.
And no one prophesied the end
But he was happy for a moth-wing’s space
And so am I, to think him so.
But the tiger growls softly:
Perhaps the world’s fearful symmetry demands
That some must believe sex is death
So others may believe that death is union.
How else to see past flesh?
And what else is there,
But to hope that even K.
Could greet the bitter angels with a grin.
A death’s head mask perhaps
But even so.