Memory: a blot in the archives of history,
luxuriant river backwaters and tributaries
for fishing by flashlight, at the Špica
where polliwogs grow into frogs
and gangs of wrestling boys are restless,
recollections, wordless signals, the fluid
of the finest narrative, which no one can
retell in full, that’s why we pass it hand
to hand, respectful and inquisitive,
like a lid we lift slowly so not to be scalded,
the past doesn’t care, the truth doesn’t either,
whatever we think of them; the closer we get
the hotter it gets, that’s clear; if I step back,
if you stay behind, the story is strewn,
the instant restarts, the finger of light winnows out
among willows, and now I’m left with what I’ve
never liked: a half hunch I was very close,
but what’s it matter when I don’t have a witness,
let alone answers to questions I switch on and off
like a feeble light, so many lamps in an empty house,
the chapters of this story drowned in croaking,
disappearing as circles do, on the surface of a lake.
from Without AnesthesiaFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2011
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on behalf of Persea Books.