Well Herzog, what do you want?
An angel from the sky? This train
would run him over.
Swollen from their fall, blued, blackened,
battered by chance encounters: atmospheric
disturbances, speeding cars, bustling inhabitants,
they litter our streets like discarded furniture.
Stripped of tinsel, stars, the blink
of their electrical shines,
they wander, careless and indiscriminate
as homeless beggars,
ragged beyond compassion,
ignored in the midst of this interminable rush-hour,
not even accorded the privilege
of being thought alien.