When there is nothing left to talk about, there's always love.
Read: once one has borrowed a cup
of light from a neighboring day there's no way
to give it back even after years. Clarification after clarification,
yet visibility is still weak. There's no point in whining,
tough things whisper, pretending that
predictability is a kind of illumination, especially
when you get a bump on your head in the dark.
In a certain light one can look
quite, well, innocent. My glasses are hiding
somewhere while I stare like I stared
at my teacher's legs when she turned
to the drying blackboard in the squat
school whose namesake was later replaced.
Her chalk stained hand in the air,
as if only partially giving up
she writes, explainng at the same time,
yet one thing doesn't square with the other.
The fluttering air drowns out the playground noise.
A run in her stocking crawls down her left leg.



Translated by Frank L. Vigoda