Peter Reich 

Translator

she comes
I hear her wings beating
she pulls down the covers
with sure movements
for nineteen years
every night
she wrecks my bed
searches me throughly
sits on my back
treads with her cold feet
if I move she flies away
if she flies away I move

to die in socks
because the floor is cold
to snuggle into lukewarm
ankle socks
to end there
‘tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished
because shoes are a prison
and there's too little time
to change into slippers
but to die in socks
feels so at home
to wake at dawn
start pulling them up
and die in the midst
of the familiar motion
to say - Gee, I'm dying now
in socks
and to step out
as if for a glass of water
from here on death
and not to sob