A poet sits in a coffee shop, writing: the old lady thinks he is writing a letter to his mother, the young woman thinks he is writing a letter to his girlfriend, the child thinks he is drawing, the businessman … Continue reading
Slow is the hand of the evening as it closes the gates, slow are the girl's hands as she closes the window, draws the heavy blinds and gathers the ashtrays overflowing with stubs. She draws her face close to the … Continue reading
It's also fine to die in our beds on a clean pillow and among our friends. It's fine to die, once, our hands crossed on our chests empty and pale with no scratches, no chains, no banners, and no petitions. … Continue reading
O lifetime of ours, go on! Parents!
Give our children plenty of milk.
Prepare what light for them you can:
save every matchstick for them,
preserve the lanterns and the oil.
For the night means to inhabit us for a long time.
(Translated by Lena Jayyusi and W.S. Mervin)
From Poems of the Pavement (1980)
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