ALCOHOL

The green river water

slows in warm bends

fish zeppelins

scatter the plankton

and tired bird catchers

attempt to catch

every word.

Hold on to

the brightly colored rags and scotch tape

that bind the slashed wrists

of these heroic times.

One day you will turn off this radio,

you’ll get used to her,

to her breathing

and, dressed in your T-shirt,

she’ll bring you water in the middle of the night.

On the terrace the left-over cups of tea

are filling up with rain water

and cigarette butts,

you and I share a cold

you and I share long conversations—

you don’t notice the morning rain

you go to sleep late

and you wake up late

I write poems about how I love

this woman, and I invent

newer and newer words

to avoid

telling her.

Translated by Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps