Afternoon, Fields and Factory

A poem by Alfred Lichtenstein

I can no longer find a place for my eyes.
I cannot hold my legs together.
My heart is hollow. My head is going to burst.
Mushiness all around. Nothing wants to take shape.
My tongue breaks. And my mouth twists.
In my skull there is neither pleasure nor goal.
The sun, a buttercup, rocks itself
On a chimney, its slender stalk.

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