Hamburg, 2012
 

A beggar cups his hands and pleads for change

while the sun gilds his palms and fingers

like a bowl possessed by Charlemagne,

standing now in a museum’s vitrine. This gold

is superfluous to him but I check my wallet

and offer a medley of coins.
All the ice has melted; the locks

in the Elbe are overwhelmed

and I wonder what to do

with so much water that can’t

be channeled or held. 
In the park the arms of beeches are empty⎯

candelabra lacking candles⎯and glowing

as though being smelted anew. A clear

plastic ball hovers a moment before

it falls, while the boy who launched it,

anticipating, already raises his arms.

I keep my hands tight in my pockets

like a boat clinging to its anchor.
While reading in a café

I lift my eyes from the book;

behind the polished window

the dawn-yellow of buttercups

is almost an affront.

Are they really wholly

oblivious to history? 
On the way home, crossing over the bridge,

I decide to give up and toss the page:

it briefly ignites⎯incandescent⎯

before the letters run,

sink into the stream.