Artificial hair Poem by Marcel Beyer

You sit and look around: secrets. The
objects, unspoken, for some years now
they haven't even turned towards the
landlord. In the cold smoke, colder
and colder the decoration, the ceiling, the
potted plants turning lightward, more bluish.
More bluish the shimmer of the landlady's
curls, perhaps she still knows the reason
for this name, Sibyl Place, today. Today,
the landlord walks on soft soles, his hair
combed to one side, hardly a glimmer from
the fairy lights, the atmosphere also more bluish.

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock