From: The Nothing Athlete (1997)
Absences
A late January afternoon.
I don't turn any corners, but I keep
tripping on straight lines. I think of dead
poets who do not see these moments:
the light sitting atop trees
and holding onto memories;
a cup of espresso and a cigarette;
a dark sky and somewhere else
some rain. They'd be wearing heavy coats,
mufflers, and they'd walk quickly
to keep out of the storm.
They pause at a shop window
and look at the latest fashions.
They remember going on dates
and the rush of love.
After all, they're only human
and they go back home.
But they wrote off all
of the above and more as
not really worth a damn and died.
Translated by Jane Assimakopoulos
Page(s) 29
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