How High the Moon
Of course, there were
the family trips in summer,
picnics by the black canal
(named earlier for Adolph Hitler)
where crabs still lived;
on its banks the pines were gaunt and stunted.
Sometimes—rarely—barges holding coal,
like charcoal for a Sunday painter,
sailed due west.
The heat wave changed clothes like an opera star:
sky-blue, rosy, scarlet,
finally white, transparent.
My uncle supervised
our outings: he loved life
(but it wasn’t mutual)
If anyone told me then
that this was childhood,
I would have said no;
it was just hours and days,
endless hours,
the sweet days of June
on the banks of a canal
that never rushed,
drenched in damp dreams,
and the meek young moon
setting out alone
to vanquish night.
(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)
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