november wind impresses its faces
into the water of the lake. they sink in it.
sightings containing themselves grow
weeks later into the ice. the boats
are lying in chains. a man in a blood
red waistcoat walks with his back to the lake
on a path he guesses is there beneath
the recent leaves. the ash beneath the rudder
is wet. he was silent all summer. in this way he
kept out of the sight of words. now they see
no windows that are lightening. and leaves
fall blackly through the twilight.
the man walks through the night in the shape
of the trees. when the lake's eyes thaw,
he has hewn his face from their wood
and the trees carry on along the path.

Translated by Catherine Hales