by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus
Believe me, I'm in the middle of my room
hoping for rain. I'm alone. I do not care
to finish or not my poem. Hoping for rain,
drinking coffee and seeing out the window a beautiful landscape
of courtyards, hanging clothes and quiet,
the silent marble clothes of the city, where there is no
wind and one only hears the distant hum
of a color television, watched by a family
that is, at this moment, gathered around
a coffee table: believe me: yellow plastic tables
are divided up the line of the horizon and beyond:
to the suburbs where they build apartment
complexes, and a 16 year old boy sitting on
red bricks contemplates the movement of machines.
The sky in the boy’s hour is an enormous
hollow screw where the breeze plays. And the boy
plays with ideas. With ideas and arrested scenes.
Immobility is a hard and transparent mist
that comes from your eyes.
Believe me: love is not gonna come,
for beauty has been stolen from the dead dawns.