Typhoon Poem by Dieter M Gräf

sky, scooter swarms, back

to the Union Hotel, its
awoken name at four (szu):

the elevator's missing number
is death in the coloratura

of the beloved next door;
in the morning: the flowing

street, vanishing, muddy
torrent with drifting barrel

a boy is sitting on. One
eyed we are, toward the TV

screens more and more water
is pouring out of, death (szu).

The day before, there'd been
TVs by the pond, karaoke

corners. Opening another in the
summoned landscape, for singing,

while the instruments
stay in the speakers,

or installing a waterfall with
good-luck charm: the temple

carp. Swimming away, now.

Translated by Andrew Shields