From conversations about art

 

I look at the pile of reports. All questions carry equal marks.
It doesn't matter how much I miss Time always remains in the book,
and it reveals itself when you open the preface.

Of course they will publish what was discussed, what we have written,
how I answer jointly and separately. How many prints are left in the shopping basket
What’s the intonation of songs. I hum a Robot Koch tune before bedtime.

And I don't know whether the darkness or the memories of climbing
Knocknarea will change anything, because, for one - my eyes are hurting, 

and two - my feet also. Fear leads slowly, always prudently, 

with a huge measure of shyness.

Behind the shadow, I arrange nightly gibberish. Gathered in one place,
under control, they are the colour of morning frost. Accumulation of affairs,
rubbish, not very bright curtains in the corner. Rooting out again and again.
In suitcases, handbags, in things of art.

I try to see in all this - myself, you, the laziness on the left.
Rarely does something provoke so strongly to check yourself with an additional question.
I remember Bernadette warning me that some things disappear on their own.

And even though I have three hours to choose words, avoid absurdities and fall in love
(sounds nice - a couple in love), I turn the next page, I fudge the answers,
watch the rain slow down on the windowpane.

And there are many good pages after all. About growing trees, stubbornness
Getting rid of imbecility, pathogens of evil, feelings of fear. I reject impulses
and become something of comfort. I am deceptively reminiscent of my mother,
played by myself for many years. As someone I know would say, I knew it was you.
Present shape, clear voice. Only a glance means I cannot see much,
cannot explain.