the knife seeks the belly, and so reaches for the hand
- sage mumbles and reaches for the fags in his pocket.
queues keep dicing the landscape every minute or so,
there is a wide, concrete wall, there is the air of peace.
sage likes this neighbourhood, and so doesn't say much.

leaves rattling in the wind, dispersing the stink
and the chesterfield mist, a little buddha floating by.
sage clears his throat and spits. he believes in his pack of
twenty buddhists, each one wiling to give his existence
for two digits and a sliver of flame.

someone mutters that this poem is short of rhythm.
sage glances at us, incredulous.
any time he falls silent we make a mess of it.
borges owned language and had rhythm on tap, he says.
the train rolls by once more and once more it's quiet

Translated by Marek Kazmierski