vasilescu’s father’s friend is playing with a beach ball.
tentatively, he throws it toward the sea, gathers it in the shadow
cast by his body, not minding the waves at his feet now
breaking against the shingle. bandages of comfort unroll
around him, around the wound of his thoughts open
to the sun. after dinner he withdraws and, sitting in the shade,
meditates. he reflects to himself that where this soon will have led,
now that he’s reached the limit, must be the sun
as a vast shadow, of which he’ll pretend he isn’t able
to make any sense. vasilescu’s father’s friend is like a fable
about first meanings not at first understood.
the sun turns whiter and takes his measure,
leaves him lonely and bereft of that universal answer
he is seeking. he sits alone in summer solitude.

Next: Read the poet’s deep meditation