Days, translated by Sharon Bangert, from Issue 20
I lock my privacy into a drawer,
pencil a thought on a page of my favorite book.
At the mailbox I drop in a letter,
then stand a while, my hand outstretched.
I walk in the wind, brazenly staring
at passersby, noting the neon flash,
the shop window glitter.
In a telephone booth I listen
to my coin clatter in the slot.
I bum a cigarette
from an old man fishing under the bridge.
On the river a boat blows a hollow note
on its horn.
I stop by a theatre with mirrors out front.
They show me my clothes.
I watch myself smoke.
Back behind my own curtains,
safe from the sound of the blackened sea,
I turn on the lamp above this old photo,
this paper, its fading, familiar hand.