In Germany on June 19, 2009 at 12:00 am


Frankfurt, a smoldering pyre

smothered with bankers’ ash

and forced to scrape the sky.


Why do I let the drizzle

drizzle me,

on a sidewalk paved

with soggy mirrors,

penned in by glass,

sniffing ozone-scented snot,

shoulder-blades stiffened

by the thundering laughs

of men who don white helmets—

traversing asphalt tundra,

condescended to by towers,

billboards, steel-circled trees,

as a fifty-foot Euro

summons me to an empty,

muffled plaza?


A sample kitchen beckons

through a window

past the sign that reads geschlossen

a dustless future

stranded on an island counter

not far from Goethe’s grave.


Why am I a homing pigeon,

watching rugby in a Biergarten,

resigned to stools and silence,

seeing how a journey

of a thousand steps

ends with a single sigh?


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