At Goethe's House

 
 
During an intermission
changing trains
in Frankfurt-am-Main
I visit
the restaged home
where Goethe was born.

It's charming
with its many stories
                    chambers
                    vestibules
full of period furniture
         books
         assorted memories.

It's a museum
but there's a harmony
                an equilibrium
                an almost tender manner
                                   so homely.

I climb the many stairs
I even saunter through the kitchen-

The attic
however
is off-limits.

I wonder if that's where they store
the dark secrets and fantasies
the official memory
proscribes.

In the gift shop I
ascetically
buy a mere
postcard
a portrait of the Poet
histrionically reclined
over an imaginary Italian landscape.

With time
every poet turns into his own spoils
but can you
     ever again
hear the inaudible?