back home we’d read translations
but never softly: scenes of the Eastern Front
required at least a twisting
of the jaw so out would come
how he himself may have sounded
gurgling on his deathbed from
an overdose of cocaine, unclear
whether suicide or error
– but forever clear his small
self-portrait: a painted darkness
of reddish hair, green face
makes a mask so unlike
the blond young man in striped trousers
seen sitting, eager not for war
but for his life – and I see
how summer light comes in
and tries its best to tell me
not to believe this possessed glow
here on the wall set to trigger
my dismay but instead to step
back into the street, where
he’d walked, shadows from clouds
falling on him as they fall on me
with sudden heat and thunder –
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