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The Day I Cut Down Mr. Stanley's Birches In My Thoughts
Mr. Stanley’s birches
shut out the carpet beating stand
and the nearby dumpster
and the noisy playground.
And Mr. Stanley himself,
quite contrary,
is falling out of the view.
Now he just whistles after his dog
and coughs in his bathroom.
Others too are changing
into timeless hits:
Mr. Andrew bangs
drunken scales on the piano.
Whiskered Ms. Chairwoman
digs herself a spacious grave
with a meat tenderizer.
There were so many views
and now the years have gone blind,
rough like cracked bark,
quick like a whipping with an osier.
Translated by Piotr Florczyk