Cornelius ... Cornelius Gurlitt

for those slim, aching moments of blinding obscurity,

and the blinds drawn and the sunlight louvered

until even the knickknacks cling to their dust as to Time

passing passing, if even that. The yearning

to be not bothered, to be passed on the street,

the rehab, the food mart, the many shoppe window reflections. So many

times, the eyes averted in fear,

so many times you remain obscure, even to your more obscured self.

A silence charting your whereabouts

at the many roundabouts,

the Tenderloins forever unnamed.

Even the sounds of the half-painted trams remain silent

in passing. Their wheels grinding yet silent. The rain

silent. The accusations even more silent,

or the “friends” who never talk back, clouded in darkness.

The landscapes drifting.

The equestrian trots drifting.

All the genres mixed up or simply misplaced.

The memories gone blank.

The mundane measured in hours, minutes, or decades, intervening, descending.