FLUTTERING CORRIDORS

1
I sat in front of the everyday curtain
as if before the curtain of the ark:
a simple prayer
devotion forbidden
by restricted movements.

Impotent
everything so dead –
flowers
books
people.
Mere survival in front of my everyday curtain.


2
A doctor and a nurse are dragging a bed
and in the room I
become a nightmare
in the dream of three patients.


3
A beloved poet mourned the death of great music
the subtleties of performance choked and sterile
but tonight when I heard
the earth break apart under the bed
I saw the sheet of blue morning
rise like an unfolding tone.


4
The next morning I sit and count
whom to worry and whom to cause sorrow:
Mother – no.
Sister, brother – no.
Friends – no.
My former wife – yes.
To heap sorrow on trouble – no.
All the same – yes.


5
In the leisure between wake-up and breakfast
my neighbor who shares my room and my illness (a Jew
of Czech origin with a Hungarian
accent) recites in my ear
a poem by a tubercular poet
who returned to his ancestors at the age of 24.
Comfort and consolation in the words of poetry.
The day will come when our lines
too are comfort and consolation.

The thought is so simple
and the feeling so unclear.


6
“And what about women?” I asked.
One of the top specialists replied: “As usual.”
Another one, no less senior: “With moderation.”
The third, he, too, one of the big ones:
“Become chaste!”

Now, when I\'ve lost all the opportunities
I know that medical science is as exact,
approximately, as the science of literature.

FLUTTERING CORRIDORS: 1-6