The swimming baths at the Den Dolder clinic
There are emotions of a fascist kind.
The father who hits out but can’t tell why,
the son half-choked who scratches photos through.
The loveliest idiot I ever saw
lay on his back, a total universe.
No father got to grasp this basket case
that drifted through the pool like one in space,
no mother poked his bowl of fish around.
And skewed and pale and wise he swam. Swam sound.
For a workshop discussion of the translation of this poem go to here.