Sever.

 

What did you think you’d do with the shoes,

Klaus,

When you felt the worn leather in your hands?

The masses of them in DC echo down the epochs,

But what of the moments

At night when the misery serenaded your sleep

And the dogs howled and the electricity buzzed through the fence?

Snapping into the emptiness on both sides.

The footprints of the death marches

Write prayers in the snow,

Punctuated with bodies

That never got to gain the weight back.

With every crack, blow; every

Fantastically nauseating

Contortion of humanity in your hands,

The utter dismemberment of dreams.

Weren’t you cold, Klaus?