Because I couldn’t stop reading Rilke. Not really
reading but repeating the same lines
to myself over and over. Like masturbation.
Like one who’s just discovered masturbation.
Like one who is compulsive
but tries to remember the freshness of discovery.
Fresh as a new rot blooming.
Because I was full of scandent pangs, livid wisteria.
And at every familiar street corner, for that matter, bursts
of small flowers rose up me like reflux.
My cross street. My for-the-time-being and
for-the-time-having-been. My undue nostalgia, sour
in an empty mouth. Because I didn’t have much
to contribute to the conversation, I watched the lurid sky
over the bay with its tight jaw unhinged, as the butter-blonde light
poured out. To this and that I pointed and said, Look,
it’s beautiful. Don’t take my word for it. Because, returning
to Reuterstraße years later, I missed someone. No,
I missed myself in certain time and location.
I saw what I had missed and I was never coming back.
I pressed my forehead against the closed wooden door.
Left a strange moisture there. Icky balm of having wanted.