Werner Herzog walks from Munich to Paris in an attempt to save his friend’s life.

She is sleeping,
her bed dipped in the slow light
of an underwater green.

The moon is sickly pale, malnourished thin.
In the pin drop quiet
patients swallow down their mouths of air.

In the night a tall man walks.
Yes there is ice,
yes the road is long.

Stars prickle, doubt,
(this won’t save her)

But blood is something.
It collects in his boots,
soaks through the tip of his socks from the skin.
Currency.
Heat in the thick snow congealing.

Energy cannot be destroyed-
So here in the line of sweat along his lip and tongue
drips energy, pure as star birth.
Who is to stop it making time,
and hope, balanced against his chest like nearly spilling water,
reaching its resting place.

The river is deep and wide.
Her breath rises in Paris-
white and small, impossible.

He goes on.

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