We drove downtown to see our neighbours;
none of them were home,
all that was underfoot was lost,
cathexis arrived early in a golden coach;
seems we weren’t welcome despite;
dear spit, the week is turning over.
Yes, I can see I am only in the where –
What does the loneliness in all this mean?
How can ‘rare earth’ be an element?
NB: what is here is certainly not there.
Sometimes I think it’s all one big affectation,
Every one has to grow up a little in their life.
My head ached from all those boulevards
rushing in to fill the unthinkable well;
outside under a slappy sky the leaves were right on:
it’s coming to a theatre near you.
Like all good things,
life tends to go on too long.
I'd like to write you about all this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
no matter if michael likes john ashbery or not, this poems contains a lot of great thoughts and truths. ulrike