the poet on a yellow bench

reflects on his repetitive trip

from weidling station to the

subway station at the city of saints

but then as he runs from B to Ira

from A to Jo

from muse to muse

they all dance in a round dance

schnitzler to zz knew this perhaps

with eyes close shut

and belle du jour

have entertained us with a

traditional theme

in midst of a hot terrace

above the heart of vienna

where the poet’s carapace

lies unblemished in the open

exposed to some vitamin d3.

yes. He fetches Italian-made

fish dishes for the ladies

and salad for himself.

his thoughts caught-up in

the slightly poisoned food

where’s no escape from what

fish swallow.

birds still warble in weidling

horses still neigh at stephansplatz

and the trees shape the wind

the wayward child’s face.




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