Out of Heine
What can brain’s smoke do with a banjo
the moon-like brain
winded from climbing up tendrils
What can brain’s smoke do with a banjo
the moon-like brain
winded from climbing up tendrils
unreal
the old wretch from the geezer's throat is unreeled
subletting violence from crime for awhile
the old wretch from the geezer's throat is unreeled
subletting violence from crime for awhile
shutting the door on eyes mouth and heart
holding the regretful memory of the banjo
the fool she cried over
the poem closes
the lights in another language
moon-faced.
*
Thanks very much to Bruce who stumbled on this site, sent me this poem, and has inspired me to reawaken the Heine-beast within and re-vivify this blog. If you'd like to participate, please drop me an email.
