Sleepless
My breath missed the needle's eye.
Now I must count
and homeward leaf down the stairs.
But the crawling forays
end in watery ditches,
in which tadpoles . . .
Count up again.
My playback reel gabbles its third decade.
The bed leaves for a journey. And everywhere
The Customs interpose: What's in your luggage?
Three socks, five shoes, a fog machine.--
In several languages they are counted up:
the stars, the sheep, the tanks, the voices . . .
A provisional sum is counted out.
--Gunter Grass
tr. Michael Hamburger
***
***
No comments:
Post a Comment