We exist on innumerable photographs. Whoever you are
you exist. In a country landscape there is no place
for sublime pleasures of the soul. Whoever’s tired of the city
this, or some other, can go to the country. City
creates an atmosphere of unaccountability just as the country
creates the atmosphere of irrelevance. Over the atmosphere
of the country planes draw straight lines or fall burning.
We could have found a plane but someone’s
stomach growled. A woman’s cough
interrupted half of the Sarabande. Ruined it all,
because I too started to cough. Time flows
and repairs all damages provided they’re
small, if not go and break the bill at the market.
Jersey City, 12/13/04
From an untitled poem by Adam Wiedemann. Copyright Adam Wiedemann. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2010 by Beatrice Smigasiewicz. All rights reserved.