Hudson Ride by Michael Hofmann Lyrics

ich weiss nicht, was sol bedeuten
Heinrich Heine

Red and yellow bittersweet, Ploughkeepsie;
the ice jags are silver, rush spikes gold
in the blue December. A big old eagle,

white head, white feet, perches on a tree
like a postage stamp or a glorified house cat.
Socks in exelsis. — God what is it with separation?

A soft freeze. The woods are rusty stone, henna fuzz ravines,
snow slicks. Ice blinds and dries. Dazzels and steams.
Swans outside Croton. I sit in the train,

at the very back of the very last car,
ruing every mile. Some sort of folly and exhilaration.
A caffeinated feeling of being all heart.


“Shouldn’t I ask to hold you forever.” I rather think I did ask.
They thought it was the New Rhine, here, or wanted to.
Rhinebeck. Germantown. Dutchess County.
My girl, someone’s girl, her own girl. Perhaps
the only other time in my life I’ve opposed the machinery
and scale of the world. My personal insurrection.

Auflehnung. A leaning up against—say, and by preference,
you in your kitchenette and sweater among the hi-hats
and bolt-cutters and beheaded pin sculptures.

Now here come the hard options: The cracked old Nabisco plant,
West Point, Indian Point, Ossining, Rockland Psych.,
Drachenfels. Bacharach. Loreley. Loreley. Loreley.