In the time of year when a yen for freedom cruelly evicts bundled-up individuals from their cosy flats and into their brazen winter gardens.
In the morning a sunbeam or streak of rain strikes a coffee cup. And in the evening a traffic light bleeds to death.
Turned out and visible to all, the bosom of the family, with whatever had kept it hidden all winter. Intimate gestures are enacted in full sight of the prying neighbors.
Lips explode in kisses clattering along the streets, and forks drop from the hands of unfettered paterfamiliases with a whimpering jingle.
Walls have eyes. Man is in a glass cage, shown for what he is in helplessness, rage and shirtsleeves, barely concealed by the odd flower pot. He hangs suspended over the pavement like his own canary.
Dew anoints a nose sniffing the clouds, and a chill evening wind brushes a hairy chest, swelling the tourist's shirt like a snail.
A sultry haze of aired bedding and other matters fights down the shy scent of a debatably flowering lilac. Oh, the struggle to lead a useful life weighed down by nappies in a rear courtyard!
Das Blaue Heft, 8 July 1922
trns. by Michael Hofmann
