In Wielkopolska
(After Georg Trakl)
Visitors near nightfall; the adjacent birchwood soughs
Its secrets to the ploughed field. Against the sky
Vagrant light mixes with bituminous bands of smoke,
Crosswise over field, houses and distant hills.
Violence. In a rattrap flat
Satan proffers the assailant a jigger of hate;
The dour farmer keeps to the clean black furrow.
Dusk in an abandoned church. The baroque choir
Of a nearby pond vies with introspection.
Night: headlights collide with buraki on bikes.
Evening in Kalisz
(After Georg Trakl)
Stumbling through this town blindly
You'll arrive at the putrid Prosna. In the riverside bar
We drank pivo and listened to American oldies.
Searing: O night limned in vague remembrance.
Evening and vegetal darkness
Sweep without touching our path to the boathouse.
Silver trickles through the weir and under the bridge,
The night and, unforeseeably, us.
Stranger; the third key fit and we tiptoed in.
Copyright © 2002 R.L. Swihart
