In memory of Max Brod
who breaking Kafka’s will
didn’t burn his manuscripts
With a temperature of 101.3
and an exile’s traveling bag
here comes
the old cough
cured out of Franz Kafka
It drowns out the manuscripts
spared from
fire’s kindness
And whispers Max
I forgive you Only
what to do with this
hundred-volumed silence
Max my Max
burn this my silence
