. . . mangiavano le rose.

Because I do not know
what a hendecasyllable is
and words is all I have
to transubstantiate and give,
within me I hunger for a tongue
of my own, unpronounceable
flavors worth a thousand madeleines
(Monsieur P.) as hunting-horns spiral
through my belly and I say:
Schmorrn muis kneidl tirschtlan
guglhupf schluzza friggl prennsuppe
hoadana kneidl hoadanO plente
schaitohaufn kiochlan unt niggilan
faignkaffe kropfn unt Töpfnudl
so rich so good and tasty the speck
smoked wurscht and roast chestnuts
never to be tasted again where cement
has ousted the forest and the wood
(gas is the flame).
Because I do not know
because I do not know how
to plant roses by the spring
now dry, let my tears fill the fountain
where waters no longer flow,
and sing to the poet who broke
the mold (and ate red tulips
when sitting among stiff bores).
Because I do not know why
lunatics hunger after roses and still
appetite with petals behind high walls,
and because I do not know
how to chew the sound of the word
in a hendecasyllable line
along the way I must plant
a hedge or red roses
to taste and see.