IN THIS CITY

so few underground docks

in this city

and hardly any artesian wells

it’s tough getting around

on such ragged oars

always late

knocking at the gate

hiding one’s fishtail each morning

behind the doors of the ancient commode

turning the clock back to six

to keep you from asking inside your dream:

why are your braids so damp?

there’s so little water in this city

it’s rarer and rarer that the sailboats

ever return from their voyages

while in the hulls

of the coral shells on the table

ever since summer

only dry winds dwell

Translated by Askold Melnyczuk