Every step of the way the poet follows the tour guide
who enlightens a group of curious cagouled tourists
searching for spiritual exhaustion in the winter cold
before luncheon is served;
whale meat on a bed of ice.
‘Now the poets no longer sit in cafés
and drink hot chocolate and eat ‘Napoleon’s hat’ buns
as in times past. But should your feet lead you
into the department stores, use the opportunity, breathe deeply,
and discern what your nose discovers
until every other scent disappears
and what remains is the putrid stench of a long-dead poet.’
The tour guide smiles and points to the poet
who bows nobly.
The onlookers clap their hands.
The applause raises the temperature on this frosty morning;
the mountain veiny with ice, threaded with ice seams.
What will be said of this later?