enclose a tone. I want to know if there’s a meaning.
Bark during sleep, wake up the neighbors, swing a bell,
let glass fly from the windows, let the singing
of mermaids prompt an erection. Let the host go hoarse
and let the radio shut up, let silence rise
above the street like a mountain peak, like forty floors
of editors accepting slender volumes of complaints and gripes.
I’m waiting for a sign. There’s time. By now, I’m well
regarded here as a nutcase who blabbers on,
who sends letters to his own address. I myself
created you, it’s clear, but what about the future tense
Poem by Opole poet Tomasz Rozycki,
translated by Mira Rosenthal
