Oswald Le Winter


2. Amsterdam

The painter has misplaced his ear inside the clock.
Streets cross the broad canals like women, bent
from age, in clothes too black for the bright noon.
One bridge after the other asks about you,
but you have hidden yourself in a painting
that lurks behind walls topped with razor wireó
a picture in which Stars burst like soap bubbles
around a Moon encircled by rings of haze.


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