Sidetracks IX

the Cold War just ended    a lone sun in the belly of the flying bird white sails drift into an alternate river of  time    all languages circulate against the state of enslavement    my identity suspect    exile is crossing the void of a journey without a destination—my life

intoxicated—tram gently rocks through the center of  Vienna whisky bottle polished off in a room in Stockholm    I make ghostly faces in the mirror    a South African poet a French poet and I belt out “The Internationale” on Osborne Street    adjusting pace to march straight into first light

the moon is my mother    softly smooth out those secret slips of paper the birth of suffering flashes to mind    precisely because of life’s incompleteness it completes itself    the defensive line of the fathers turns into forest    a chainsaw screams out of human will    behind the cemetery the city glitters and shines

the setting sun and an elegy for the twentieth-century    scattered chronicles and crossed-out blacklists    the wave that has yet to form has already transmigrated     postwar flags ceaselessly change colors meanings that survive underground draw water    from the cracks between words spit out the bubbles    collect postage stamps collect shards of thought    butterflies flutter above a forgotten line of defense

I am Celan in 1947    crossing the border from Bucharest to Vienna the smuggler has the smell of a skunk    North Star of my childhood leads the way    no identity card except a manuscript of poems overnight at an abandoned train station    a stooped shadow stalks through the starlight    German the enemy of the mother tongue    it is now time  for stone to bloom

I dream of a raging storm    a forest as if a crazed herd of  horses whirls me away    embrace a pillow in the clouds    hug the family tightly waves crash against the port side of a battered wooden boat    moss blindfolds the rocks    perch on the branch of language    coffins of war or epidemic take flight    shadows in the field dig up potatoes to prepare for winter

searching for an unfamiliar city in which I can be reborn    crow-black clouds bow their heads to smell the tobacco leaves    the sea leaves a watermark on banknotes    angels on the gallery walls fly away in a hurry    the bronze statue on the public square overflows with hostility    time is like walking a dog bounding prancing running wildly swiftly stops and turns the corner    scratches an itch against a tree then pees and moves on and on    without a leash