Auf Flügeln des Gesanges
Last night I saw the garbage men up on their carts
combing the alleys at a crawl, in fervent sub-
jugation to the dionysian ideal, performing
polyphonic Schubert, an elevating choral
opus, threadbare as a rag. Out and about was
also Freud, his glass top hat held in one hand –
following the dream that he himself had written down,
all that I saw was sadly in pursuit throughout the town.
So too can I pretend another life will come
in which I finally re-meet you – as if we
in the shadows of tomorrow, though refound,
could wholly lose each other this time round.
To see the original poem, go to here