I feel myself being peeled from this picture
of walls and walls to each horizon and machines
whose bullhorn mouths spout endless propaganda
and a swastika scratched in the footpath.
The crows calling from windows, “marked apart,”
wait for you to fall so they can feast.
The wave in their wake wipes out
the warmth of that last smile. And my feet
begin to slip and scuff and my neck
begins to stretch and the stars
begin to blur and the blackbirds
are singing in Humboldthain.