They'd gotten used to him. But when the lamp

arrived, and guttered with a nervous flame

the dark draft blew, then he was one whose name

grew utterly unknown. They washed the damp

throat then, and went about inventing, out

of lies — because that's all they knew — his fate.

While washing, one, succumbing to a bout

of coughing, laid the eiseled sponge's weight

down on his face. The other chose to pause

as well, while from the stiffened bristles fell

some drops. His hand's clenching, so like a claw's,

tried terribly to show the house,

the whole house, thirst was gone — he tried to tell

them — and it worked: with some embarrassment,

almost, they coughed again, and got to work

for real. And on the wall, their shadows — bent

and rolling hard — began to writhe and jerk,

netted in muted-paper-pattern seas,

until the end of all this washing came.

Night, caught in the uncurtained window frame,

grew pitiless. Devoid of any name,

he lay there clean and bare, and passed decrees.

Eine von den Alten

Paris

Abends manchmal (weißt du, wie das tut?)

wenn sie plötzlich stehn und rückwärts nicken

und ein Lächeln, wie aus lauter Flicken,

zeigen unter ihrem halben Hut.

Neben ihnen ist dann ein Gebäude,

endlos, und sie locken dich entlang

mit dem Rätsel ihrer Räude,

mit dem Hut, dem Umhang und dem Gang.

Mit der Hand, die hinten unterm Kragen

heimlich wartet und verlangt nach dir:

wie um deine Hände einzuschlagen in ein aufgehobenes Papier.