Trauermantel

Ah Sadcoat, Sadcoat, you fall, backwards you fall,
and all the unkissed kisses gather beneath the wall,
day after iron-hinged day burning the throated will;
the dust of your wings on our fingers glittering still.

Sour mantle of unripe fruits, torn out before the frost,
hesitation's truer accountant, recking the final cost,
you fluttering curtain of black, settling over the cast --
your breath on my lips, and the salt of your eyes, at last.