Smoke on the Field

A poem by Alfred Lichtenstein

Lene Levi went out in the evening,
Mincing, her skirt bunched up,
Through the long, empty streets
Of a suburb.

And she spoke weeping, aching, crazy,
Strange words,
Which the wind tossed, so that they popped,
Like pods.

They made bloody scratches on trees,
And, shredded, hung on houses
And in these deaf streets
died all alone.

Lene Levi went out, until all
The roofs made their crooked mouths grimace,
And the windows and the shadows
Made faces

They had a completely drunken good time -
Until the houses became helpless
And the mute city passed
Into the broad fields,
Which the moon smeared...

Little Lene took out of her pocket
A box of cigarettes,
Weeping took one
Out and smoked.

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