Slept far too much, and now, in this
morning behind still closed curtains
- there is time to open them when
the need to write has passed, like
sexual passion after fullfillment -
back in the routine of writing own
poems, diatribes against colonists,
an ode to a hominid jaw, and
translating, while an effervescent
vitamin tablet is turning water deep
yellow in the tall beer glass my parents
bought thirty years or more years ago,
and down with the sun-coloured liquid
go the medicine pills before taking
the next poem to translate from Charles
Simic, who has briefly sidelined everything
else, being such an easy one to mine for
brief feelings of joy, no need to go
through dictionaries, search if a word
had the same meaning for Donne
as it has for us in these latter days
when behind Schrödinger's lemon
coloured curtains the Sun might
shine to snowy fields or not.
10.02.2025
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