Days Of April `43
Trumpets, trams, deep echoes, screeching brakes
chloroform his mind as you count
as you endure and then you vanish
in the numbness and the mercy of a surgeon
He walks carefully in the streets, so that he won’t slip
on melon rinds that the careless Arabs throw
or the refugee-politicos and the gang
laying in watch will he step on it? Will he not?
Like when you pluck a daisy he walks on
swinging a huge bunch of useless keys the dry light-blue remembers
faded advertisements of the Greek Coastal Navigation
windows locked shut over beloved faces
or the little clear water at the roots of a plane tree
He walks going to his work as
a thousand hungry dogs rip his pants
and strip him naked
He walks, staggering, pointed at by fingers
and a dense wind brings around
garbage, dung, stench, and curses
Manolis Aligizakis 