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HOME 2003-05-12
Ingeborg Bachmann 6.25.26 Klagenfurt, Austria / D. 10.17.73 Rome Burns A rowboat catches at late-breaking waves grey-brown shoreline in a realm of rainclouds humps in to the landing, knocks its prow on an old step ancient harbor lined with stone deep green water. The boat is here with my dreams now I can start, I thought just as the cat threw up. Stomp, fetch, wet, wipe, deodorize, try to shut my bedroom door; the catch is old and wouldn�t. Tomorrow�Monday. Again. Rowboat, mildewed sky, stone blocks water-blackened greenish-gold sea water deep against the disused wall I dream dream vanity vanity me dream me dreams elaborately aggravating. Until at last a toothsome young Canadian whose flesh suggests more nakedness than she is showing my favorite illusion presents me with a gift, a box of hard-bound books. In their midst, I spot a volume, in German by Ingeborg Bachmann the great Austrian poet who died from smoking in bed it has a blue and white paper cover, maybe thirty years old and I say Oh you don�t want to get rid of this. We open the book, and there on the title page just as I am suspecting breezy, balloon-y, a faded denim blue is Ingeborg Bachmann�s signature. I can�t believe I said anything. I say Where did you get? Oh that�s right you�re from Canada, you still have good used bookstores up there. Yet I collected my rower�s recompense a clammy haze of soft blonde kisses. Consolation Site: Dunkles zu sagen
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