Academic journal article Field

Hubertsweg

Academic journal article Field

Hubertsweg

Article excerpt

March midnight, the gardener said,

as we came from the station

seeing taillights of the late train

snuffed by fog. Someone walked behind us,

we spoke of the weather.

The wind throws rain

across the ice of the ponds,

the year spinning slowly towards the light.

And at night

the roaring at the keyholes.

The fury of stems

splitting the earth.

And come morning

light roots out the dark.

Pine trees rake the mist from windowpanes.

He stands down there,

wretched as stale tobacco smoke,

my neighbour, my shadow

right on my heels as I leave the house.

Yawning sullenly

in flurries of rain from the bare trees,

he tinkers today with the rusty chicken wire.

What's in it for him, noting investigations

in his blue octavo book, my friends' car numbers,

keeping watch on this hardly vulnerable street

for contraband,

forbidden books,

scraps for the belly,

stashed in a coat lining. …

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