名人诗歌|Die Muhle Brennt--Richard

（after a painting by Georg Bazelitz）

When the red chair suspended in air

grazes the TOP of your head

and the white pitcher^{1 that rests on the chair}

neither falls nor spills， you will move

to the window， or the empty space

in the wall left by the guns on the hill

just outside the city， and be amazed

at the mill ablaze^{2 in the distance，}

the loud report of dry beams knuckled³

under heat， the carousel^{4 of shadows spun5}

around the orange center of the flames，

because you know this cannot happen here

or because you know the mill's been on fire

for so long that the city's been consumed

entirely^{6 and the heat from the mill}

has blistered^{7 the red paint on the chair}

and dried the water from the pitcher，

and， if you wait one more instant，

afraid that it is too late， it will be too late，

and the chair and pitcher will drift

through your hair as ash.