you won t know. wo meine Liebe sich versteckte

my love would find itself
neck deep in secret archives,
dusted with thousands
of strangers’ ages, spider legs
and cocaine.

my love would find itself
catacombed;
unwritten it flowers like burdock,
barbed wire intertwined —
vile twins in a womb.

my love would find itself
in the lungs of wildfowl dead —
a messerschmitt’s cabin,
it’s ribs grotesquely caved in
with stale buckshot and slough.

my love would find itself
dilated, magnified and distorted
under nauseous light,
where Russian futurists
laughed, hanged on the chandeliers.

my love would find itself
a hideout,
down by the first nuclear snowfall.
like a sticky annotation
in a controversialist’s trench pocket.

my love would find itself
nailed to a weeping birch,
once peek-a-booing mocking:
white and black lace
extending off the branches.

my love would scream.
my love draws breath
and coughs bloody tuberculosis.

my love would limp
and dance shirtless twist
on the pool table.

my love unearths
dead hands and bunkers.

my love exists,
but you won’t know.