In Vienna we followed the feverish musician
around for three days.
These are the steps he ran on, crawled:
we felt them with bare hands,
sucked the grain of the roofbeam, a smudge of
soot from the chimney; dust we licked
from the cracks in the floor.

Out of the headphones of Japanese women
the Lacrimosa crackled; Spaniards whistled
the Figaro; school children ran around
the glass cases. Within these walls,
yes, to the measure of these rooms.
We pressed our cheeks against the window
and saw what had been seen: Blood Alley.