At night I become his missing arm. / The one he lost on the front, looked for / years later and didn´t find.

So many people in the world. Truly, is no one superfluous?

The door always used to swing shut, by itself, for years and years, with measured haste. / Now it stands utterly still.

Petr Borkovec is now a somewhat neglected author, and it is unquestionably true that only a small handful of readers know his work.

in the auditorium of several neighboring windows / I see a single moth / as old and miserable as the world

They had already sat down on the bed. Then the man remembered the back door was still open.

My daughter marches through the forest. She can’t do it herself, so / she uses my legs, my eyes and my fear.

I retrace my steps, barefoot and diligent as a shipwreck

In the end his body puked him out / as if it were only a stomach / and a mouth. It didn’t let him / just slip away.