“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered
in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd
to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,
I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet
stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst
begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.
You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.