The most terrible images, he said, don't
let go of me any more. I can't sleep,
he said, his head in his hands.
And poor drunken Jan
with his arms full of boxes full of apples
had to find his own way out the door.
We who are here lie awake,
see a chair on top of a wall
a flag flapping on a tree
a boy with a boy's hands.
He who is there is fast asleep
dreaming he is here and everyone whole.
Right now he wants to get up, hold the door open
for someone with boxes of apples.
translated by Shirley Kaufman
Copyright c 1988 by Oberlin College. May not be
reproduced without permission.