I read my fold

I read my fold

John Bjarne Grover

I read my fold:
Not many francs to meet.
I've seen the gold
without a single friend.
I've made an end,
have made a sad decision
which like a sad derision
clings to my feet.

My native hands
have touched the timetables:
My finger chanced
along their numbers' rows.
The bricked mouthspace blows
the candles and the curtains out
for what the natives shout
by winetables.

I see her waving
on a sidewalk moped.
I see her waving
with her arm held up.
I find metal for any cup
that is written
or has been written
[...].

The poem was written in probably October or November 1996.
See 'Harlem and Jensen and Aung San' towards the end of the article.