now all those things you did not dare
to speak up about have tripped you up
and said: stutter, and you then took
hold of a lock of greasy hair and crushed
it between the forefinger and the thumb. Oh, those little,

cute little miracle-making words. you have
awaken his guilty conscience and you have given him
complexes. and henry kissinger
grinned with no cause with some blond starlet,
because with your free hand you could

crumple up the newspaper casually
and let it fly over the table. porto? yes, one
small glass in a little bar in urbino with tables
covered in formica colored blue and
red. porto in glasses with thick rims

then again being nagged by the crashing bore
of dejected words that you were not aware of
until that day when you came to your senses
and tossed a cigarette butt down under the neighboring table
uttering quite simply: margaret
hornbey and paolo forelli used to be

my neighbors. they stayed in the room next
door and they could hear what i
said in my sleep. yes, you call for margaret and
paolo, they will testify. with your hand you
grabbed the newspaper, henry, your nostrils
like tubes from which espresso coffee trickles down

Translation: 1999, Sibila Petlevski