Hanging on the telephone
in a hazy funk.
Ice in a glass.
The words
shape-shifting silver bream,
occasionally
catching the light.
The ice shifts,
tying me down,
caught on a line
encumbered, turbid.
Tasting Berlin: Berlin,
diluted,
hanging on the telephone
in a hazy funk.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem