I write about it
yet I don’t want to think of it

I have no idea
why I always cling to one word
some such word
which makes me founder at last

„Did it happen to you when you were still   

           alive?“

            That afternoon I was wavering in it a little
            back in the meadow 
            and a black and white cat watched me from the grass
            It was the death of me
            Suddenly I saw that all led toward her
            and that I
            as she sat there
            couldn’t avoid her

            I saw myself changing direction out of spite
            and heading elsewhere
            just because of her
            but still in that transparent vain manner
            elsewhere again back again

            Either indirectly toward her
            Or slap-bang

            The knot was getting tighter until she ran away from me

The knot
one of those words again

The instant I set off following one of its kind
something else starts lurking in its stead
which I never ever should have intrigued with

And then neither cut nor pursuit helps
of another word
There is no another
And they all are skilled in reminding each other of the fact

I no longer feel a poem but a cold clasp 
that none of us living
would not want to know for real
much less to live through
what could also mean

            alive
 
            Until it runs away from me
            Like then