All swans are called Reinhard. Not really, I know
they just look like it. Like a certain look. And so
- - - - - - beep - - - crumbs and they are merely
what they might think (no no no). They wear glasses
what no, organic brackets. Light rackets,
right? Round necks and pecking as black as
shots and each, each of them might think
me? Like this? Then come around, to
pluster and guide with crumbs your, that
- these, yes? - dole us out to know, on necks
so ready to be torn down, so raffled, so so questioning,
to tell me, like anyone, 'oh', no, 'show'.

They come and are more than what
you can deal with, about - not cr- - - -
about swan things is what they think about.
And you see them floating, in the midst
of a strong rain, scattered over the water
and I don't really know, wait for half
a cigarette's length. Crumbs, crumbs, crumbs.
Then we proceed. The tire exploded,
the bike must be pushed all the way to the doorway.
What do they want, the length of the canal as they come?
To listen to music quietly, to be (me)
alone and see the swans
through a film, as though through a film;
to watch them without having to think
that all swans' names are Reinhard, or Charlotte.