Klopstock Quadriga
The cheese in the harbour is made from the milk of Tired clouds squeezed by high winds and circumstance, Says Old Man Klopstock
He rides his fingers over
Folds of holes in winter pockets
Looking for a door to escape
Down there
Where cold, wounded thigh meets
Death shroud of Charlemagne
The ecclesiastical meets the fantastical
Klopstock slips into his own wound
But before his final departure
Tips his wig to suggest that you
Dig a hole in the water
And bury your tears at sea
Print a picture of your shadow
To prove you come by darkness
Honestly