I write about it
yet I don't want to think of it

I have no idea
why I always cling to one word
some such word
which makes me founder at last

„Did it happen to you when you were still

alive?"

That afternoon I was wavering in it a little
back in the meadow
and a black and white cat watched me from the grass
It was the death of me
Suddenly I saw that all led toward her
and that I
as she sat there
couldn't avoid her

I saw myself changing direction out of spite
and heading elsewhere
just because of her
but still in that transparent vain manner
elsewhere again back again

Either indirectly toward her
Or slap-bang

The knot was getting tighter until she ran away from me

The knot
one of those words again

The instant I set off following one of its kind
something else starts lurking in its stead
which I never ever should have intrigued with

And then neither cut nor pursuit helps
of another word
There is no another
And they all are skilled in reminding each other of the fact

I no longer feel a poem but a cold clasp
that none of us living
would not want to know for real
much less to live through
what could also mean

alive

Until it runs away from me
Like then

From Czech by Veronika Revická