Details Disappear.


The name of the restaurant and the food we ate that night
drifted away during the years in between.
but I did see him there. My friend heard him first,
nodded gently backwards, eyes rolling a direction.
I swear he looked through the shoulders of his guards, straight at me.
His name alone a force for my mouth to reckon with.
A frisson of sounds aloud, written down, all exclamations.

I wanted to see a halo, some sign of the vaunted integrity.
I saw a man silvered too soon and dropped my eyes.
We’re all old quickly here, said my friend, and
unable to stomach another lecture I got up, walked over
my unasked for hello a shout in the swift silence.
He asked me to sit, and I did.
We shared some wine. The oddest things are still vivid –
In a potato coloured shirt, my friends eyes fixed on his plate
mouth mechanically working through the food.

The name of the restaurant is gone, what we talked about is mostly gone
(The Clash, Andrić, my wispy grasp of his politics)
but I saw him there and he shook my hand.
The sibilant plosive anger later expressed at my stupidity also remains.
Four years on, he ran down some stairs and into a bullet.
The outward dangers were all gone you see.

It’s like this; we think we are safe, we stop taking care.
We forget.

Zoran Đinđić (Zoran Djindjić)1952 - 2003.