– 21 –

Mephisto

After a night in the cellar
Goethe returned to with Faust,
I am up in the air again,
cumulo-cirrus, thin ice, a voice
that is crushing and reasonable:
Your little life…

We fly over a river,
part frozen, part cracking up
at the end of a beautiful winter:
a three-month blinding heaven
that will leave its smallprint
and otherwise nothing on earth.