The last day
laying down atop a tower block, I'm nibbling sunflower seeds.
tar burning my belly, winds setting the match up
inside my head: nil nil just like this eleventh floor.
sun spots reflecting, playing in windows like the holy faces
of friends, I can still hear the silence they left behind
or hear nothing at all, only sometimes the missing
point. down below, a wasteland of cardboard wigwams,
tramps in battered slippers sending smoke signals
up from their fags. they wave as if they were parting.
the seed shells fall and break against the first
window ledge, the first head, the nearest well.
the sea nearby, a small paper boat against it
© translated by Marek Kazmierski, (Vienna High Life, Off_Press, 2011)