The grief that takes your breath away.
Red-orange-purple stains the sky
at sunset. Animals die. Children.
Awake all night or not. Pitch
your tent at the southern edge
of Lake Superior on a beach
strewn with ice. Listen to the ice
chunks still in the bay click together
in wind. If you can stand at dawn,
let the endless sky take you.
john mann poems 
I don’t like the sound of “chunks” but what the hell choice to you have? Otherwise, very nice.
Bty, after looking and looking for Haans Johst in translation, I finally found some. He was the poet laureate of Nazi Germany and responsible for the famous: When I hear the word “culturer” I reach for my gun” falsely attributed to Goering. The stuff I found was hideous and mindless, and yet, he was purported to have been a great poet, which is how he got the post. Two things are clear: first, there isn’t much in National Socialism as rendered by Nazis to get poetic about and is limited to a very forced rhetoric. Second, when a poets get desperate enough for work or money, they are capable of strange behavior. Re “chunks” pocks, shards, frozen junk, clutter, breakage, cracked, crazed, fragments. “chunks” remain an honest descriptive. I just wish it didn’t sound like “clunk.”