You sit at the head of the table
heady with wine,
and hold forth,

Surely it’s ridiculous maybe even scandalous
that I feel such overpowering envy
for the eleven-year-old son who’s dozing

Very simple love that believes in words,
since I cannot do what I want to do,
can neither hug nor kiss you,

There she is turned into a lollipop
a large egg-shaped lollipop,
not passed around, but twirled in the mouth,

To look at beauty and never make it yours.
If it weren’t this way you’d look at yourself
that is you’d have nothing more to look at,

In the seething almost Indian heat
of an exaggerated July in the city
the remaining inhabitants cautiously

But you, are you Christians?
So be it, you are Christians.
At night one could be.

Oh really, she’s with somebody?
So she’s with somebody.
Is she really with somebody?

Isn’t it amazing that one evening
sliding the bread into its paper sack
I start all over with the same old speech,

When, thanks to the virtues of wine,
I let go of solid memory and a certain pleasure
seems almost real to me