The park's dark-green evening dress,
the soft sleeve, the tunnel -
the avenue we walk along.
We feel our way inside the sleeve
like a strange arm searching for light.
A pliant, longing arm of a strange body.
We listen to the sounds of the night, sawing, tapping,
hammering in the bushes.
Fete, we keep whispering
the password to each other.
This is a fete.
Cannot decline the invitation.
Cannot even leave the room,
the fete is about to begin.
No time to go back home
before the fete starts anew
in the middle of the road.
Seagulls shine on the lawn -
bird shit on the wet, black statue.
You have found people of your own kind, your kindred
carved out of the same coffin.
Black boats float
under their eyes, too.
They, too, believe that the spring will come again,
every instant will start a fete.
outward from their own core,
rockets bring something distant close to us
and then explode it, explode your face.
Exactly what you need in a fete,
isn't it, you can imagine something changing.
The celebrants, like the Furies,
the Erinyes, exude confetti,
Your image on the surface of the water:
it is you, but you are not it.
The stone wall crumbles, dissolves in the water
sculpted out of darkness.
Lamps of three different colors light up
in the park: red, blue and purple.
The sea in some places so deep
that it swells like black chewing gum,
a black rubber raft slips
into your ear.
Sand rustles into your ear,
the hourglass of your head.
The nose casts a long shadow
as if your face were a sundial,
a sundial in the dark night.
Someone slams a red clown nose
right in the middle of your face, you swing
around to look.
The Furies dance, waddling
ceremoniously, unintentionally comic,
holding up their hems in the whirl,
quiet in the accompanying currents.
Tell me what the celebrants'
abandoned kids said
when they passed you running
and shouting bang bang bang.
Did they wish to comment on something?
Sounds grow into a language for the children,
the language is a great death rider,
driving around in a circle
in the steel cage of death.
Do you already know everybody at this fete?
Names float around like flags in a stream.
Names drift among garbage scows.
Names are collected on a tray like
disposable plastic cups
and eventually thrown away.
Where the trees end,
where the avenue ends,
a blind arm protrudes from the sleeve.
The fete is over
before it even began,
we lose our way in the unobstructed darkness -
in the darkness painted