To know you are here, at this point,
at sea-level zero of luck,
unable to do anything, promising
everything, with the recklessness of a teenager,
now, in your forties, when your sole
freedom is that
You’ve been in this hotel before, from
exactly this same place you’ve stared out over the roofs,
the rain, the dust, the undulations of
With your tongue you collect the salty
wetness from the corners of your mouth,
you don’t know when it was you cried,
you close your eyes but that doesn’t
solve anything, because you are here,
at sea-level zero of luck, lying to
others and lying to yourself, spring will come.
But already it’s gone, it took place
yesterday, it lasted from three to three-thirty. No,
that can’t be true,
you’re shouting, there’s still time, I
promise you, you’re sobbing,
in your arms you hug the pillow tight,
and with it, in the darkness of your
room, the thousand women from your memory.
No, that can’t be true, but yes, of
course it is, the thousand happy days of your life
for which you can’t find a suitable
“You can’t find anything in this
house,” the woman shouts from the kitchen, “nobody
takes care of anything here,” then the
door slammed shut, the hail of words
which make you sick, you feel your
heart tumbling in your chest, the air thinner and thinner,
a throbbing at the temples.
. . . You’ll get
dressed and you’ll leave. But not now.
Now, in slow motion, you’re repairing
the bathroom faucet,
you’re watching your hands and then,
only then, you remember
your double existence, with happiness,
because everything has taken place before,
hasn’t it? The journey through the
mountains, in some other season,
with some other woman beside you,
everything has taken place before, the
tears, yes, and the knot in your throat, the explosion
of the aorta. It doesn’t mean anything.
Spring will come, you repeat to
yourself, the same spring from twenty-five years ago,
from last year, because your sole
freedom, here, at sea-level zero of luck,
The same as ten years ago, as last
year, you’ll get dressed and you’ll leave.
But not now. Another time.
Adam J. Sorkin and the poet
My nerves are
their blaze was
Now it’s gray.
Some time ago
I said with proud
the body—my only
But all heresies
come to an end
by finally making covenant with the
until you cease
to feel it.
My body has itself forgotten that
being, to be.
for such a long
time has not been flesh
all over its
it is purely a sentence (with
predicate impossible to find)
in my own mind.
translated by Adam
J. Sorkin and Ioana Ieronim