Fur Kurt

 

Balanced between Beethoven and Thunder,

We are all Destiny’s children,

Walking – whether we know it or not –

With our Fates and our phantoms.

This day our honest money is unacceptable,

We cannot climb the tower.

We cool our jets instead;

No wind, no forward speed:

The patient river of friendship

Smoothes our broken edges.

The new-old voices of rock

Loud again in

The still air.

Big Apple Come-Down

Ghost-blonde, in green,

There, then not

In this Babel state-of-mind tower:

Brought in, carried away

By trader winds.

Is this how life goes by:

Vertical sections

Crumbling to dust

As a billion pilgrims

Walk by, not knowing

Their own moon

Is fast-falling?