All these strange
small objects
that come to us in the course of our lives
each one from its own location
each one from its Logos.

The old pruning knife
with its worn wooden haft
and its blade worn thin
found on a pavement in Arles.
And the sculpture
of brass turned green
that an artist once
welded for me out of old door handles
in a studio close to what was once the Berlin Wall
in Marie Louisenstadt.

That artist was completely crazy
and could only be addressed
in the schizophrenic language.
His work resembles, if anything at all,
a spider. But without a web.

A small azure bottle
with a fish's mouth up at the cork
from some rubbish tip.
A child once gave it to me.

They do not speak of course.
And neither are they ‘symbols'
of something or other.

They have come down
from the firmament of forms
to stay
for a short while
on writing desks
and in window recesses

And one is grateful for their visit.

Translated by John Irons