Two Poems
Matthew Sweeney, 8 February 2001
“... Days of German St Francis didn’t speak German to the robins he fed, nor did Scott as he trudged through the snow, but I did as I crossed the border to Alsace-Lorraine all that winter of ‘77, to dine on choucroute, stock up on wine – bootfuls of it – and bring back ripe munster to stink out the shared fridge on that final 13th floor of the Studenten Wohnheim, from whose balcony we saw far into France, right to the Vosges, and closer, just beneath us, the affair being conducted in the allotments (we rented the binoculars to students from other floors), and where, in July ‘78, after the goodbye party high in the Black Forest, on the eve of a trip to Italy, I announced I wasn’t going because I’d dreamed twice we’d driven off a cliff, straight into the Adriatic, and my friend, to my surprise, hugged me, saying she’d had the same dream – and where the first room I was offered had been a recent suicide’s ... ”