THE SUMMER IS NOT GOING AWAY Poem by Mária Ferenčuhová

The summer is not going away, it sticks around like an inflammation on stuffy roads
warm stone, no trace of footsteps (and yet humidity in the air):
wounds are not healing, the same movement every afternoon -wiping
the dust from one's eyes and the oil from hot wheels. October.

No way back either: continuance in crevices - the city doesn't remember,
nor do you wish to: numb feet, chapped hands, why not admit -
a straight, a passage, a street appearing around the corner instead of (a certain) memory
Another one. The same one.

And a mad man on the platform, completely desolate
(no one is scared of him any more), change at Réaumur-Sébastopol:
at the very top a man is sleeping in his socks,
a bandage sticking out of one, but hardly anyone dares cover their nose.

Behind the window without blinds, someone gets drunk,
quite solitary, behind a window with a blind I redo my make-up,
I don't air the place, I silently implore the telephone,
till finally I fall asleep.