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
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