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And that song about a little green leaf—

no one ever finished it near me.

 

I loved them.

But I loved them haughtily.

From heights beyond life.

From the future. Where it's always empty

and nothing is easier than seeing death.

I'm sorry that my voice was hard.

Look down on yourselves from the stars, I cried,

look down on yourselves from the stars.

They heard me and lowered their eyes.

 

They lived within life.

Pierced by that great wind.

Condemned.

Trapped from birth in departing bodies.

But in them they bore a moist hope,

a flame fueled by its own flickering.

They really knew what a moment means,

oh any moment, any one at all

before—

 

It turns out I was right.

But nothing has come of it.

And this is my robe, slightly singed.

And this is my prophet's junk.

And this is my twisted face.

A face that didn't know it could be beautiful.

 

 

“O Theotropia, my empress consort.”

 

“O Theodendron, my consort emperor.”

 

“How fair thou art, my hollow-cheeked beloved.”

 

“How fine art thou, blue-lipped spouse.”

 

“Thou art so wondrous frail

beneath thy bell-like gown,

the alarum of which, if but removed,

would waken all my kingdom.”

 

“How excellently mortified thou art,

my lord and master,

to mine own shadow a twinnèd shade.”

 

“Oh how it pleaseth me

to see my lady's palms,

like unto palm leaves verily,

clasped to her mantle's throat.”

 

“Wherewith, raised heavenward,

I would pray thee mercy for our son,

for he is not such as we, O Theodendron.”

 

“Heaven forfend, O Theotropia.

Pray, what might he be,

begotten and brought forth

in godly dignity?”

 

“I will confess anon, and thou shalt hear me.

Not a princeling but a sinner have I borne thee.

Pink and shameless as a piglet,

plump and merry, verily,

all chubby wrists and ringlets came he

rolling unto us.”

 

“He is roly-poly?”

 

“That he is.”

 

“He is voracious?”

 

“Yea, in truth.”

 

“His skin is milk and roses?”

 

“As thou sayest.”

 

“What, pray, does our archimandrite say,

a man of most penetrating gnosis?

What say our consecrated eremites,

most holy skeletesses?

How should they strip the fiendish infant

of his swaddling silks?”

 

“Metamorphosis miraculous

still lies within our Savior's power.

Yet thou, on spying

the babe's unsightliness,

shalt not cry out

and rouse the sleeping demon from his rest?”

 

“I am thy twin in horror.

Lead on, Theotropia.”

 

 

Décolletage
comes from
decollo,

decollo
means I cut off at the neck.

The Queen of Scots, Mary Stuart,

ascended the scaffold in an appropriate shift.

The shift was
décolleté

and red as a hemorrhage.

 

At that very moment,

in a secluded chamber,

Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England,

stood at the window in a white dress.

The dress was triumphantly fastened to the chin

and finished in a starched ruff.

 

They thought in unison:

“Lord, have mercy on me”

“Right is on my side”

“Living means getting in the way”

“Under certain circumstances the owl is the baker's daughter”

“This will never end”

“It is already over”

“What am I doing here, there's nothing here”

 

The difference in dress—yes, this we know for sure.

The detail

is unyielding.

 

 

In the town where the hero was born you may:

gaze at the monument, admire its size,

shoo two chickens from the empty museum's steps,

ask for his mother's address,

knock, push the creaking door open.

Her bearing is erect, her hair is straight, her gaze is clear.

You may tell her that you've just arrived from Poland.

You may bear greetings. Make your questions loud and clear.

Yes, she loved him very much. Yes, he was born that way.

Yes, she was standing by the prison wall that morning.

Yes, she heard the shots.

You may regret not having brought a camera,

a tape recorder. Yes, she has seen such things.

She read his final letter on the radio.

She sang his favorite lullabies once on TV.

And once she even acted in a movie, in tears

from the bright lights. Yes, the memory still moves her.

Yes, just a little tired now. Yes, it will pass.

You may get up. Thank her. Say goodbye. Leave,

passing by the new arrivals in the hall.

 

 

Conceived on a mattress made of human hair.

Gerda. Erika. Maybe Margarete.

She doesn't know, no, not a thing about it.

This kind of knowledge isn't suited

to being passed on or absorbed.

The Greek Furies were too righteous.

Their birdy excess would rub us the wrong way.

 

Irma. Brigitte. Maybe Frederika.

She's twenty-two, perhaps a little older.

She knows the three languages that all travelers need.

The company she works for plans to export

the finest mattresses, synthetic fiber only.

Trade brings nations closer.

 

Berta. Ulrike. Maybe Hildegard.

Not beautiful perhaps, but tall and slim.

Cheeks, neck, breasts, thighs, belly

in full bloom now, shiny and new.

Blissfully barefoot on Europe's beaches,

she unbraids her bright hair, right down to her knees.

 

My advice: don't cut it (her hairdresser says);

once you have, it'll never grow back so thick.

Trust me.

It's been proved

tausend- und tausendmal.

 

 

“Woman, what's your name?” “I don't know.”

“How old are you? Where are you from?” “I don't know.”

“Why did you dig that burrow?” “I don't know.”

“How long have you been hiding?” “I don't know.”

“Why did you bite my finger?” “I don't know.”

“Don't you know that we won't hurt you?” “I don't know.”

“Whose side are you on?” “I don't know.”

“This is war, you've got to choose.” “I don't know.”

“Does your village still exist?” “I don't know.”

“Are those your children?” “Yes.”

 

 

Kyoto is fortunate,

fortunate and full of palaces,

winged roofs,

stairs like musical scales.

Aged but flirtatious,

stony but alive,

wooden,

but growing from sky to earth,

Kyoto is a city

whose beauty moves you to tears.

 

I mean the real tears

of a certain gentleman,

a connoisseur, lover of antiquities,

who at a key moment,

from behind a green table,

exclaimed that after all

there are so many inferior cities

and burst out sobbing

in his seat.

 

That's how Kyoto, far lovelier

than Hiroshima, was saved.

 

But this is ancient history.

I can't dwell on it forever

or keep asking endlessly,

what's next, what's next.

 

Day to day I trust in permanence,

in history's prospects.

I can't gnaw apples

in a constant state of terror.

 

Now and then I hear about some Prometheus

wearing his fire helmet,

enjoying his grandkids.

 

While writing these lines

I wonder

what in them will come to sound

ridiculous and when.

 

Fear strikes me

only at times.

On the road.

In a strange city.

 

With garden-variety brick walls,

a tower, old and ordinary,

stucco peeling under slapdash moldings,

cracker-box housing projects,

nothing,

a helpless little tree.

 

What would he do here,

that tenderhearted gentleman,

the connoisseur, lover of antiquities.

 

Plaster god, have mercy on him.

Heave a sigh, oh classic,