FRANKS CASKET

Near Heckenhauer’s snoozing bookshop,
where Hesse once shelved poems,
you are standing
frail,
arms crossed lightly
in the pouring sun.
Your fine cheekbones
in shadow,
drenched face
in thought,
you listen deeply
to the bright street-harpist
plucking music from the day.
Your hair is flowing
black in the fine afternoon;
you are obviously a thinker,
fragile as a cloud;
withdrawn you are
yet still stand out
in this basking, strolling, crowd:
I think your name is Susanne
and I see your skin is milky;
and I wonder,
twelve years on,
where you have gone.
I sense
that you’ll have babies,
they are plainly in blue eyes,
and, in that filmic moment,
you do look beautiful to me:
a precious one, you’re trapped
in this snapshot album,
delicate
in not knowing
that the wall has been
pulled down.

Dawn Chorus, Correnstrasse 45

Last night’s red wine,
thrown to excess
down the throat
of this flowing town,
throbs in my startling veins
as a thousand blackbirds
ring in the early hours
with a cathedral of singing bells
rising though the green mist
of these fertile hills.
Careering down
Tuebingen’s stooped lanes,
I want to scream
wild hymns
for Johannes Kepler,
throw open
the window of my heart,
let dreams spin
completely
out of control,
making love on the morning’s wing.
For I am a singer too,
sending my lyrics
across an outstretched Germany,
my wet lips seeking
those of distant lovers
waking like me
in a strange and thrilling land,
full of soaring music,
full of blackbirds
lush
with song.