Felix Bernstein

No mass will anyone sing, no Kaddish will anyone say

Neither said, nor sung — by none — when I’m done

But maybe one day . . . ?

When the weather’s bright and gay, out for a stroll in Montmartre, my Paulina, alongside Madame Christina

With garlands of evergreen, comes she to adorn my grave and sigh, “Oh, my poor guy,” wet melancholy in her eye

Alas, dwell I way too high, that even for my sweet a stool I can’t supply

Geez! Her weary, wobbling feet

Sweetie, fatty, don’t go back to your house by foot

At the curb, grab a cab or a duck or a purse

“Writing after poetry is a barbarity” — Adorno

“in Chinatown, my Paula, alongside French Kristin”