Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2004 - Ljudmila

Edward Foster
Morning
Done with trying — no one’s awake — it’s dark.
Dawn won’t be here — no feeling in myth,
this book, or anything else around you —
Only wait — everything will come
exactly as you planned.
It’s the kind of language you remember,
Henry said, quoting Auden
but mysterious at first;
a poem is memorable language.
That’s sentimental.
You’ll remember nothing.
There’ll be nothing to feel.
Three-fingered Intellect
Meeting you, I thought this »second best«
is not so bad. I’d still fuck you,
and, given your emotion and restraint,
what more could any ask? You’re younger,
somewhat more reluctant to despair.
Should I need more? What kind of man
rolls over saying (in effect), »Don’t wait on me
to wait on you.«
Oh, never could there be
a wanting: satisfaction means to please.
Your memories of Budapest and someone younger
held me in your thrall. It truly was your self
I wanted, made somewhat small.
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