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Carousel. Thirty years ago—
the caramel pony, her flowers, the flight.
Now she’s here running
again amongst horses
black and white, harnessed with light.
This page contains:
There’s a black bull. The pig and the goat
are marking time, flat-eyed watchers.
The Little Prince’s plane is trying
to take off and the Nautilus circles.
They know the cliff is getting closer.
I kicked the pony but night still came.
The Bock is floodlit. Down to Ville Basse
the spies are driving driving
and the carousel is racing. When’s the jump,
when do I jump, I ask?
Luxembourg, December 2014