Poetry

The Night Café

Without wealth, I drift in
the corner, dark-lit, to repose
the waiter and other strangers,
in polished black shoes and laces, old —
look away to far off places
lost beyond the skyline, I
drop the cell phone on the table
and raise a glass but not too high
I take my pen to write
some words to reach out to you
the waiter cuts a glance
the time to pay is due
all the coins lie scattered out
the streets outside are dead
the symphony long over
the strangers now in beds
in the Paris winter nights.

The Conversation

In a dimly lit restaurant nestled in the cobbled alleys of Zürich’s Niederdorf, ten of the world’s most eminent (and eccentrically over-dressed) mathematicians gathered around a table buckling under the weight of antipasti and wild gesticulation. Archimedes, having insisted on entering the premises wrapped only in a

Dare

Dare I dream of roses, a night sky passing proud, Orion and all his friends standing, in heaven’s dark blue, not loud— Like children we remember, the home from where we were, the rocket then we boarded— steel forged and smoothed our nerve. The first kiss, the awkward bumble,

Now to Our Own

We start with feet riding on a rubber floor, a moving carriage, scuffed by thousands of shoes, our reflections caught for a second in the glass. A middle-aged man stares at us, then sinks again as the train descends into the central tunnel; brushed steel and huddled shoulders carry

Nun zu den Unseren

Wir fahren, die Füsse auf dem Gummiboden, den tausend Schuhe blank und stumpf zugleich gerieben, im fahrenden Wagen, wo für einen Augenblick unsre Spiegelbilder an den Scheiben blieben. Ein Mann mittleren Alters sieht uns an, dann sinkt sein Blick zurück ins Ungewisse, während der Zug hinab in die Tunnel fährt;

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The Conversation

Dare

Now to Our Own

Nun zu den Unseren