The cook smokes when the place is empty, one after the other searing densely packed Hungarian cigarettes. After midnight I fatten myself on greasy hamburgers while the cook sings in his bitter tongue. For years we’ve kept our distance this way. From my room across the street I watch him light another cigarette, detailing time, …
Maybe it is excessive to memorialize the mosquito. But even the mosquito holds, by the sip of my blood, a stake in the history of anxiety. Translated from the German by Monika Zobel
by Bertolt Brecht: When the regime ordered the dangerous / books be openly burned
(Translated by William Pitt Root and Hannelore Quander-Rattee) My muse stands on the corner what I don’t want she gives cheap to everyone when she’s happy she makes a gift of what I want Seldom have I seen her happy. My muse is a nun in the darkened house behind double grates she puts in …
Poetry International 17
“The Mosquito”
Poetry International 10
“Corner Cafe”
Poetry International 18/19
“Where They Burn Books”