The Paris Review

Circulation 

The solitary molar of a streetwalker 
whose body had gone unclaimed 
had a gold filling. 
All the rest were gone, 
as if by tacit agreement. 
This one the morgue attendant claimed for himself, 
flogged it, and had himself a night out on the proceeds. 
Because, so he said, 
only dust should revert to dust.   

Never Lonelier 

Never lonelier than in August: 
hour of plenitude—in the country 
the red and golden tassels, 
but where is your pleasure garden?   

Soft skies and sparkling lakes, 
the healthy sheen of fields, 
but where is the pomp and display 
of the empire you represent?   

Everything lays claim to happiness, 
swaps glances, swaps rings 
in wine-breath, in the intoxication of things, 
you serve the counterhappiness, the mind.                                 
 

 —Translated from German by Michael Hofmann