The Lost Poem Poem by Leslie Philibert

Shoved in a jacket, a folded heart,
a breakage of words about the body fascism.
Nach Auschwitz ein Gedicht zu schreiben
ist barbarisch. So sing then a song about
Oswiecim, about the ice on the Sola, about
Silesian firs, tell me the story of a train
hanging under the stars, late from Hannover.
Tell me with hushed words about a hole in a roof,
about rushed concrete and sinking ash.

Then throw this poem into the sun.
No paper can carry this weight.