Brian Docherty

World View

Boredom rusts my mouth, shrivels my tongue.
The food never varies; I mark off my days
by the menu I have never been offered.
The supplements announce who is on duty.

I can smell my own body, the drains,
boiled vegetables, leather and dogs.
The man who hung himself 20 meals ago is
still with us, a wreath of quicklime.

My skin, my clothes, this floor, these walls, are
all I have touched for too long.
A book, a woman’s skin, a glass of wine, are
things I have given up longing for.

All night I hear men moaning, pipes banging,
lorries and trains in the distance.
If I had a watch, I could set it by them. In
the early hours they stop for a while.

The high window is a wonky camera
framing birds, clouds, kites, planes.
I never see other people except through
the smoky mirror of memory.

Daniela Bojica

Brian Docherty
Privelistea lumii

Plictiseala imi incleiaza gura, imi increteste limba.
Mancarea e mereu aceeasi; tin socoteala zilelor
dupa meniul de care n-am avut niciodata parte.
Gustarile anunta cine e de serviciu.

Simt mirosul trupului meu, al scurgerilor,
al legumelor fierte, al pielii argasite si al cainilor.
Omul care s-a spanzurat acum 20 de mese este
inca printre noi, un abur de var nestins.

Pielea mea, hainele mele, podeaua asta, peretii astia, sunt
tot ceea ce ating de prea mult timp.
O carte, pielea unei femei, un pahar de vin, sunt
lucruri la care am renuntat sa mai visez.

Toata noaptea aud oameni gemand, tevi trosnind
camioane si trenuri in departare.
De-as avea un ceas, l-as putea potrivi dupa ele. In
zori de zi se opresc putin.

Fereastra inalta e un subred obiectiv
care prinde pasari, nori, zmee, avioane.
Nu vad niciodata alti oameni, decat prin
oglida fumurie a memoriei.