German

The moon rises, pale faced,
Upon my broken German.
My throat is frozen at this time,
A marble pillar of salt.
If you count my indiscretions,
Which you would not be so cruel
As to think about, I would lose,
And therefore lose my head,
At the curling flickers of hair
At the nape of my neck,
Where I shiver in the dark-
Which it now, incidentally, is.

I don't like the dark. Even less
Do I like to speak like this,
Because my throat is delicate,
And should not be scraped by
The harsh sounds of a close country.
Why did we ever part our tangled ways?
I couldn't tell you, if I should
Happen to call at night,
Late, when the dark is chased
By the phantoms of insomnia,
And I am still frozen by this
Unforgiving moon. I speak not,
And am full of questions.