In Germany on June 15, 2009 at 4:00 am


Three days

in a German village

mean walkways,

highways, bikeways, paths—

bucketed sausage

and puffy eyes,


stonewashed jeans,

sprouts of rattail hair,

and a labyrinth

of chilly pauses.


I envy them,

their algorithmic breaths,

their silences as tragic

as a refrigerator

shutting off.


Watching them bow

and walk with fingers locked

behind their waists,

I picture how

a proper German

cuts his curried


thin, I think, and even,

chewed slowly

like a mourner.


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