Curriculum Vitae

American Poetry Review, The, Jan/Feb 2001 by Enzensberger, Hans Magnus

When he emerged

from his dark box, he wasn't

anything particular.

Firm skin, an innocent smell,

one of many thousands.

He didn't like to learn how to walk,

he knuckled, didn't fit,

didn't pay attention. Gave in

over the course of time; softened slowly,

carefully watched his tongue.

At night, he hung around,

sleepless; during the day, though,

he struggled along from place to place.

He suffered, became wet and dirty

while on his long pilgrimage.

Sweat, exertion, intimacies--

an individual, unmistakable

and darling. Except for the wrinkles

that ever more deeply ate their way, the spots

that appeared in his skin, the fact

that he wasn't quite tight anymore,

was bursting out of his clothes.

Thus he came to land where

all of us are to land,

in a dark box.

Whatever remained was merely

his soul, if indeed his shoe had a sole,

invisible and good for nothing.