Topsy-turvy city. I am your river. Bridges and buildings
Topsy-turvy into me a circus upside-down.
I see what only the waves in my memory see:
I am still drinking a glass of wine while writing in cafés.

From flayed walls — fresh wallpaper flowers,
A couple like a cat and a tomcat in a green niche.
A cloud with a blue beard. And at the bookstalls
Someone seeks a book which refuses to exist.

A man leaps into me from a bridge. What does his leaping mean?
His thin coat sails but remains in my circles.
Topsy-turvy policemen whistle like a train.
So far, no one knows that that man is Paul Celan.