Morning through the window, the inner courtyard: no shaft but throat, the space, the pearlflecked light now cotton, now cocooned. Tea. A candle. The same sweater worn for weeks. Radio. Black bread with cheese. The light that comes. The window. The silence.
The story here has always been the same: back & forth a wandering of streets, one side to the other, see: this shall be, have been, a story of certain silence. Of simple drift & days. Muteness. Tonalities of gray. Elevated railways that break to blackout. Disappearing act empty, audience absent, of echoes always one: wait harder.
(this poem originally appeared in Berlin’s SAND Journal, Issue 14. As to its title: see Federico García Lorca’s poem ‘Little Viennese Waltz’. See also Leonard Cohen)