It's not an orchestra they need

(it's their own wailing that they hear,

like nesting owls that scream to feed).

Like weeping sores, they ooze with fear.

Decay infects the atmosphere —

the best smell they can give the air.

They clasp him tighter in their greed —

that Dancer with his ribs like ribbons;

that partnering gallant, forbidden,

but making up a couple.

Then sisters’ habits all are freed

That covered — once — their hair.

Yes, he and they dance equally.

And from a candle-pale one, he

removes the bookmark she

slipped in her Book of Prayer.

Soon, all of them grow far too hot

(they are too richly dressed).

From brow and rump is pressed

a sweat they cannot blot

from every robe and hood and stone.

“Oh, make us naked in this heat,”

they cry, “like children, madmen, two made one,

to dance forever to this beat.”

Das Jüngste Gericht

So erschrocken, wie sie nie erschraken,

ohne Ordnung, oft durchlocht und locker,

hocken sie in dem geborstnen Ocker

ihres Ackers, nicht von ihren Laken

abzubringen, die sie liebgewannen.

Aber Engel kommen an, um Öle

einzuträufeln in die trocknen Pfannen

und um jedem in die Achselhöhle

das zu legen, was er in dem Lärme

damals seines Lebens nicht entweihte;

denn dort hat es noch ein wenig Wärme,

daß es nicht des Herren Hand erkälte

oben, wenn er es aus jeder Seite

leise greift, zu fühlen, ob es gälte.