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.

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

occasionally there is too much ado / about night-time, that’s fine, turn out the light / and slide me in the grave, this time I’m through / with sounds and lights, for me now dreams feel right

It could’ve easily been a scrotum, / but most likely it was someone’s wallet.

Over the course of November, B O D Y will introduce you to some of the most noteworthy poets and prose writers writing in the Czech Republic today.