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Went down to Wall Street
and the Bull it was gone
the mighty bronze one
squat lord of Wall Street.
A year and a half
before the subprime
not even a calf
wore bronze on that small street,
some skyscrapers may have.
Squared flow-lines, tight-packed
are the charging Bull’s style.
In battle with his Squaremacht
the dumpy brown Allies
were brave in round turrets
or ice-furred as the Bear
but they took home Bull’s power.
Haven’t been back
among Wall Street diviners
where green faith’s assigned its
hourly valuations.
Don’t know if the hoof-scraping
humpmaster of freedom
is back in place there
or off fighting Baby Bear.
From Oxford Poetry Vol 13 No 1 (Spring 2009)
Камень. Камены.
A swan engages in self-reflection.
The gardens of Leto do not commemorate Niobe.
Riven, the vernal ice drifts on the Never River.
Eva my daughter has a fever. Her face looks thinner.
She ate bread and butter my daughter.
She wants me to lie next to her, so that she may grab onto the sides of my head
and drift off to sleep.
Vater. Water.
She wakes up, goes to peepee. I hold her over the bowl.
I try to wrap her in a bathrobe. No, I’m schwitzing. I do not need it.
I’m not cold, I’m wet.
She sneezes, a Popel hanging out of her nose. Der Popel, but die Pappel.
Ich sah meine Pappel, and so on.
She “reads” Asterix and is delighted when I tell her that Ave is Eva
spelled backwards.
Papa, says Eva holding a brownish apple, schmeiss this weg. I schmeiss it weg.
We live in Berlin.
Rome has fallen, ye see it lying
Heaped in undistinguished ruin:
Nature is alone undying.
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