RING

There is no moving porno film

but I’ve come for all your sad cinemas.

 

Like honey, your bronze bells

melted for munitions.

 

Stencilled fog on the school bus window,

the child’s interrogative, Hi?

 

Alone in the glass, a white-haired man

inclines toward a platter of oysters.

 

What u gonna do with all that junk?

Your battle booty. The ghetto’s fleeced teeth.

 

Punny in dialect, the bus driver brakes for Berliners.

Hai! Where?!

 

When the door clicks on Number 11,

the chairs collapse on anguished legs.

 

Atop your rubble mountain I’ll take Bobrowski in hand.

That depressive Pole. Could you still love me?

 

Your mother’s crystal flutes,

her silver salver – supreme for sledding.

 

We’ll serve iron rations.

These guests are such wild boars.