When I think of ‘The Tempest’ I think of blue,
A hand in blue water, and some distant ships;
Of being young and slightly drunk in the afternoon,
And secrets hidden from an artist within their own play.




Somewhere out there a man is digging,
Hands frantic, face pulled taut.
Under the earth somewhere must be those jewels he buried;
Branches are dripping. Soon time is up.



Who will love me? is the question,
Who do I love? is the answer.
Humans, enwound in webs of love,
Above streams of love, going gleaming by.

I left you weeping there in your room,
With the news your mother had died back home.
The backing group they wept a tune,
Later I restrung an old guitar for you.

Old vegetable


There is an onion somewhere in Freiburg
That rustles with inanimate pride.
One day it rolled across the kitchen floor,
A leafy brownness in a paper hide.

All things are understood in silence,
The wonder of this pregnant world.
Language, so entertaining, must at last fall short:
All things ineffable can be in silence understood.

A glass of water and it’s time to go,
To leave town with our heads held high.
The bus is going! Darling, I’ll write you emails,
Give me five minutes – kiss me – Давай!

Bird on the balcony, what do you think,
Of love, God, and cosmic irony?
Vacant as a rich kid, your answer is hopping –
Pigeon, you know even less than me!

Down here


The word is a soundstage and the people are actors
Flinging themselves into their talk and their work.
The sun is a camera, the sky is a film crew,
And canned laughter is ringing through the universe.

My hand on this trumpet,
Like her hand on my breast, that night.
Let her heart beat for me like a mother’s,
The strings play in time to her heart.