A man alone drinks schnapps
by the Moldau.
A violin playing
Tziganes and waltzes.
The river reflects
the golden lamps of Charles Bridge,
the sound of joyful sparrows
playing along with the violin.
In the blue dusk of evening
the man checks the time on the gilt-framed clock
at the old riverside market
still smelling of goulash, goat cheese,
sausages and wilted chrysanthemums.
-time to go home to read Flaubert,
preferably in the toilet-
He sips the last drop of schnapps
that failed to subdue all
the mise-en- abîme of his brief existence
between factories, brothels, Yiddish theatres,
unfinished novels and transient loves.
The butterfly of his silence
poised to become a massive beetle
on his gleaming bowler hat.
He made love with Lilith last night
and whoever has had intercourse
with a goddess, must die soon.
