especially wet july, and from early to late
you in your postman’s uniform are blurred into the background,as if
this time you would like to be nearer the sky, blue
forecasts must sometimes sadly come true.

I only sometimes check my answering
machine, asking for messages from my world.
the morning voice perhaps unloosed from the film il postino-
“it’s half past six. I’m going to work.” all that

slowly becomes a strange mosaic.
the scratched mailbox always empty, but the head
full of the same news from different
television stations. in the morning and evening I’m sufficient

at least to keep the flowers on the balcony alive,
though for two days I have
hardly left the apartment as the rain is barricading me inside.
It’s good, that at least I can imagine

the delivery.




Translated by Sarah Fetherolf