Ich war alt wie ein Rauch
                            Johannes Bobrowski


once again I pace around the photos on the piano
they receive me without the least resistance

colors shadings fading lines
camber like a drop from the tap

the bedding’s cooled down   scum on the milk
sirens late at night – an  ambulance or factory

your body stirs in the stuffy atmosphere
somewhere far away in another quarter

styrofoam rubs against the windowpane

don’t you feel the taste of dusk    won’t you go
not knowing where   will you bring

the bridge of Palanga or not

in the eighth room back amid the dancing legs
wearing shoes from the eighties  I find what I wasn’t looking for

on the parquet a fallen drop of blood
so round thick innocent

I lean down and lick it, stunned