FRANZ

 

A man alone drinks schnapps

by the river 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.