gas stations III

tank & drum
nowhere an inside to berlin, city
flattered into beaming capital
bodies resounding
with progress, progross, polkas

years of lording it they mete out traffic
from one saddest to another thousand
next best basta blue
shady side of a slope beaming
as if there were things that last
as if the triad
          time-space-death
did not lie otherwise in state. but

after a dozen long
trecks distance locks shut
speed pulps beauty
then only the word counts
the smallest home we can share

Original © Gerhard Falkner
Translation © Rosmarie Waldrop