from “Mister Today”

I seek a poem that has vanished
in the motorcar rattle somewhere between Vienna and Graz.
It consisted of two birches,
the palace of the noble Esterhazy
and the unclear statement “I have risen”.
The power of eavesdropping was halved,
a diffusion of the nettles’ snow-whiteness
and an orange submergence in an image,
yet to come.
Enough to make the mouth water,
and the act of walking the border thus tottered between words
and vacant space –
Mister Today is in a painting mood,
but drawing a ladybird on a baseball cap will not be easy.
(I think it all happened in that street, said Mister Today.
But what it was, he simply cannot say).