Sorrow Gondola

The almighty Cyclops-eye went behind the clouds

and the grass shuddered in the coal dust.

Beaten sore and stiff from last night’s dreams

we climb aboard the train

that stops at every station

and lays eggs.

It’s rather quiet.

The clonging from the churchbells’ buckets

collecting water.

And someone’s unrelenting cough

telling off everything and everyone.

A stone idol is moving its lips:

it’s the city.

Where iron-hard misunderstandings rule

among kiosk-attendants butchers

sheet-metal workers naval officers

iron-hard misunderstandings, academics.

How my eyes ache!

They’ve been reading by the glowworm-lamps’ faint light.

November offers caramels of granite.

Unpredictable!

Like world history

laughing at the wrong place.

But we hear the clonging

from the churchbells’ buckets when they collect water

every Wednesday

—is it Wednesday?—

that’s what’s become of our Sundays!