Miasma

A cloud of moths

boils around 

the street lights

in this silent

leafy town.

Like tiny angels

or the souls of babies

who were never born

still trying to escape

the inky darkness,

the breath of hell

that thickens the air

of this accursed town.

I won’t stay nor seek

a place to sleep

under the linden trees

with their heart-shaped

leaves in this heartless

town where all the shades

seem to be forever drawn.

So I keep walking

out past the black soil

of the furrowed fields.

There is no moon

tonight, I feel my way

along the darkened road

with the sound and friction

of the pavement against

the thin soles of my shoes

to where the air is clean

and smells of wild grass.

-Dachau, 1972