The little man would sometimes shut
His bookshop, long enough to copy out
An unpublished one we’d read out loud. “Surprising,
This poem, weiss sind die Tulpen, that comes
From Rilke, I’m sure of it, schwartz sind
Die Straucher, but he’s put white tulips
Instead of black shrubs: Paul
Celan didn’t like trees. You
Never knew him, and you like these poems?
Watch out for bigotry! Here, it’s
A mass grave for books, and the people
In the window are almost all dead
Friends: literature, all it is ever
Is a way to pass, get by.”