and I’ll be fleeced,
or, more precisely, flayed.
I move about the planet
in a crush of other debtors.
Some are saddled with the burden
of paying off their wings.
Others must, willy-nilly,
account for every leaf.
Every tissue in us lies
on the debit side.
Not a tentacle or tendril
is for keeps.
The inventory, infinitely detailed,
implies we’ll be left
not just empty-handed
but handless, too.
I can’t remember
where, when, and why
I let someone open
this account in my name.
We call the protest against this
the soul.
And it’s the only item
not included on the list.
One Version of Events
If we’d been allowed to choose,
we’d probably have gone on forever.
The bodies that were offered didn’t fit,
and wore out horribly.
The ways of sating hunger
made us sick.
We were repelled
by blind heredity
and the tyranny of glands.
The world that was meant to embrace us
decayed without end
and the effects of causes raged over it.
Individual fates
were presented for our inspection:
appalled and grieved,
we rejected most of them.
Questions naturally arose, e.g.,
who needs the painful birth
of a dead child
and what’s in it for a sailor
who will never reach the shore.
We agreed to death,
but not to every kind.
Love attracted us,
of course, but only love
that keeps its word.
Both fickle standards
and the impermanence of artworks
kept us wary of the Muses’ service.
Each of us wished to have a homeland
free of neighbors
and to live his entire life
in the intervals between wars.
No one wished to seize power
or to be subject to it.
No one wanted to fall victim
to his own or others’ delusions.
No one volunteered
for crowd scenes and processions,
to say nothing of dying tribes—
although without all these
history couldn’t run its charted course
through centuries to come.
Meanwhile, a fair number
of stars lit earlier
had died out and grown cold.
It was high time for a decision.
Voicing numerous reservations,
candidates finally emerged
for a number of roles as healers and explorers,
a few obscure philosophers,
one or two nameless gardeners,
artists and virtuosos—
though even these livings
couldn’t all be filled
for lack of other kinds of applications.
It was time to think
the whole thing over.
We’d been offered a trip
from which we’d surely be returning soon,
wouldn’t we.
A trip outside eternity—
monotonous, no matter what they say,
and foreign to time’s flow.
The chance may never come our way again.
We were besieged by doubts.
Does knowing everything beforehand
really mean knowing everything.
Is a decision made in advance
really any kind of choice.
Wouldn’t we be better off
dropping the subject
and making our minds up
once we get there.
We looked at the earth.
Some daredevils were already living there.
A feeble weed
clung to a rock,
trusting blindly
that the wind wouldn’t tear it off.
A small animal
dug itself from its burrow
with an energy and hope
that puzzled us.
We struck ourselves as prudent,
petty, and ridiculous.
In any case, our ranks began to dwindle.
The most impatient of us disappeared.
They’d left for the first trial by fire,
this much was clear,
especially by the glare of the real fire
they’d just begun to light
on the steep bank of an actual river.
A few of them
have actually turned back.
But not in our direction.
And with something they seemed to have won in their hands.
We’re Extremely Fortunate
We’re extremely fortunate
not to know precisely
the kind of world we live in.
One would have
to live a long, long time,
unquestionably longer
than the world itself.
Get to know other worlds,
if only for comparison.
Rise above the flesh,
which only really knows
how to obstruct
and make trouble.
For the sake of research,
the big picture
and definitive conclusions,
one would have to transcend time,
in which everything scurries and whirls.
From that perspective,
one might as well bid farewell
to incidents and details.
The counting of weekdays
would inevitably seem to be
a senseless activity;
dropping letters in the mailbox
a whim of foolish youth;
the sign “No Walking on the Grass”
a symptom of lunacy.
NEW POEMS
1993–97
The Three Oddest Words
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belong? to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no nonbeing can hold.
Some People
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.
They abandon something close to all they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.
Their shoulders bear pitchers and bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they grow.
What happens quietly: someone’s dropping from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child back to life.
Always another wrong road ahead of them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now nearer, now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.
Some invisibility would come in handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.
Something else will happen, only where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when and who,
in how many shapes, with what intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will let them live some sort of life.
A Contribution to Statistics
Out of a hu
ndred people
those who always know better
—fifty-two,
doubting every step
—nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
—as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can’t be otherwise
—four, well maybe five,
able to admire without envy
—eighteen,
suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
—sixty, give or take a few,
not to be taken lightly
—forty and four,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
—seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
—twenty-something tops,
harmless singly,
savage in crowds
—half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
—better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
—just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
—thirty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
—eighty-three
sooner or later,
righteous
—thirty-five, which is a lot,
righteous
and understanding
—three,
worthy of compassion
—ninety-nine,
mortal
—a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.
Negative
Against a grayish sky
a grayer cloud
On the left, that is, the right,
a white cherry branch with black blossoms.
Light shadows on your dark face.
You’d just taken a seat at the table
and put your hands, gone gray, upon it.
You look like a ghost
who’s trying to summon up the living.
(And since I still number among them,
I should appear to him and tap:
good night, that is, good morning,
farewell, that is, hello.
And not grudge questions to any of his answers
concerning life,
that storm before the calm.)
Clouds
I’d have to be really quick
to describe clouds—
a split second’s enough
for them to start being something else.
Their trademark:
they don’t repeat a single
shape, shade, pose, arrangement.
Unburdened by memory of any kind,
they float easily over the facts.
What on earth could they bear witness to?
They scatter whenever something happens.
Compared to clouds,
life rests on solid ground,
practically permanent, almost eternal.
Next to clouds
even a stone seems like a brother,
someone you can trust,
while they’re just distant, flighty cousins.
Let people exist if they want,
and then die, one after another:
clouds simply don’t care
what they’re up to
down there.
And so their haughty fleet
cruises smoothly over your whole life
and mine, still incomplete.
They aren’t obliged to vanish when we’re gone.
They don’t have to be seen while sidling on.
Among the Multitudes
I am who I am.
A coincidence no less unthinkable
than any other.
I could have different
ancestors, after all,
I could have fluttered
from another nest
or crawled bescaled
from under another tree.
Nature’s wardrobe
holds a fair supply of costumes:
spider, seagull, field mouse.
Each fits perfectly right off
and is dutifully worn
into shreds.
I didn’t get a choice either,
but I can’t complain.
I could have been someone
much less separate.
Someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm,
an inch of landscape tousled by the wind.
Someone much less fortunate,
bred for my fur
or Christmas dinner,
something swimming under a square of glass.
A tree rooted to the ground
as the fire draws near.
A grass blade trampled by a stampede
of incomprehensible events.
A shady type whose darkness
dazzled some.
What if I’d prompted only fear,
loathing,