I liked this... in These titles mean nothing.

poem by W.G. Sebald (1944-2001)
in the October 10, 2011 issue of the New Yorker

October Heat Wave

From the flyover
the leads down
to the Holland
Tunnel I saw
the red disc
of the sun
rising over the
promised city.
.
By the early
afternoon the
thermometer
reached eighty-
five & a steel
blue haze
hung about the
shimmering towers
.
whilst at the White
House Conference
on Climate the
President listened
to experts talking
about converting
green algae into
clean fuel & I lay
.
in my darkened
hotel room near
Gramercy Park
dreaming through
the roar of Manhattan
of a great river
rushing into
a cataract.
.
In the evening
at a reception
I stood by an open
French window
& pitied the
crippled tree
that grew in a
tub in the yard.
.
Practically defo-
liated it was
of an uncertain
species, its trunk
& its branches
wound round with
strings of tiny
electric bulbs.
.
A young woman
came up to me
& said that al-
though on vacation
she had spent
all day at
the office
which unlike
.
her apartment was
air-conditioned &
as cold as the
morgue. There,
she said, I am
happy like an
opened up oyster
on a bed of ice.

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Last updated April 21, 2015