There are no vanishing points in Vienna,
where every line recedes with crazy alacrity
over and over and over again—
almost as if the distance between here
and the horizon were never constant,
always shifting, never focused,
quite unlike Franz Joseph’s stern gaze
or Wittgenstein’s Tractatus
or a slice of Sachertorte.
On the other hand,
there’s definitely no denying that,
when the sun sets in Schönbrunn
and the Sperl closes
and the Schaum in the cups
no longer resembles the scum
in the Donau Kanal,
time more or less stops dead in its tracks,
as does movement masquerading as Bewegung,
and then it’s almost impossible to avoid the conclusion
that repetition—
and especially the repetition of things
that don’t matter a bit—
has no point,
no point whatsoever.
2009, NYC
