Spring 1988 • Vol. X No. 2 A Poem |

Vienna in the Rain

Dead center in the rain over Stephansplatz, the cathedral is blackened like the cone of something badly burned in coming back to earth. For a while I have stopped under the awning of a clothing store whose windows light up a display of dry shoes, high on glass risers. Walking in the rain after leaving the house where Freud kept his quarters until the war, I thought of him writing a friend after his own operation for throat cancer, "He'll live, but he won't sing." Today I have walked through the small rooms Haydn and Schubert left behind, looking out a window where their dear breaths once filled a day with no more than song. I wonder when I will begin to think of life passing in the third person, when I already see myself going down a road or stopping to dip my hand in a fountain, the sailboats quietly moving. How stunning it was on the train to Vienna that moment in the mountains we moved into a curve, during a hard rain, when I saw our engine enter a tunnel and

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Pavlov’s Dog

By Michael Pettit

Dead center in the rain over Stephansplatz, the cathedral is blackened like the cone of something badly burned in coming back to earth. For a while I have stopped under […]

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.