Mendelssohn, I’m working here. The collected poems of Anna Mendelssohn

Soft, soft, the lan­guish sho­cked
ter­rible pit­ted think & lost
city     swti­ched semio­tic drink
rigid through pale tube,     pal­lor
of the jaun­di­ced eye, soft swum
cin­na­mon, soft, the lan­gui­shed
suck,  a wind bob­bing in beau­ty
drizz­led by ter­rible pat­ter­ning
ins­ti­tute Taste, rowed behind
clo­sed streets, dark camou­flage
on the flanks of the swam,
retrea­ted, untoi sip, hea­ding on
the camps glo­wing, ener­ge­tic mag­pies
perch bet­ween para­ding for food
beneath the arching cave-lamps
soft, soft, the lan­guish sho­cked

by an emp­ty series of neu­tral door­ways
once again there, obli­vious,
regu­la­tion par­lour, contai­nable situa­tions,
flicks through manual, pin­cer on num­ber
appro­priate, approxi­mate, checks time.