for M.v.d. Lubbe
Torstraße. Friedrichstraße. At last,
the street for the composer deceased
of dementia or melancholia or depression.
More names: Reindhart, Langhoff, Brahm.
Behind the trees, a woman gives her neck up to Death.
In her hands are flowers.
O mockery of heads! His stone is the body.
Late theatre-goers idle in the golden cut of light;
on his chest, four wine bottles, one plate, a slice of cake.
Should I weep? I write, which is a little weeping,
a little smiling. My friend sits beside me on a bench.
How good to have a friend, how lovely.
Memory spreads its gossamer over the square.
The television tower, omnipresent, slips from view.
Defanged, a policeman considers his boot—
young, no older perhaps than the dead.
I hurt with the urge to gather him in my arms,
huge-grown, and bring him to the body and boozers,
pour a drink, share a joke, soften in the evening sun
like plums warmed on a windowsill.
The policeman frowns at his radio, only hearing
voices the composer illumed, and darts away.
Again I am small. Two sparrows alight from a
branch and play among the cobbles.
I confuse ourselves, blurring them and we.
Against the howl of an ambulance,
the bodies soar.
