But also when the streets are clean and spotless.
I am never entirely sober in rubbers.
I hold the cigarette in my hand.
My soul skips in little rhythms.
And all one hundred pounds of my body skips.



The Patent-leather Shoe


The poet thought: ah, I have enough trash!
The whores, the theater, and the moon in the city,
The dress-shirts, the streets, and smells,
The nights and the coaches and the windows,
The laughter, the street-lights and murders--
I'm really fed up now with all the crap,
Damn it!
Whatever will be will be--it's all the same to me:
The patent leather shoe Hurts me. And I take it off--
People might turn around, surprised.
Only it's a shame about my silk socks...



Smoke on the Field


Lene Levi went out in the evening,
Mincing, her skirt bunched up,