the memory, when it gives up
one remembrance after another,
goes blind with its own words.
in empty rooms you touch
along the wall, which grabs your hands,
over doors, which you don't open,
at the window. glances, which are dark
which are light, soften the eyes.
a voice forms out of noises,
which doesn't make it past the
silence. once again you go
with groundless steps through the house.
light has cut out shadows,
for which there are no reasons here.
you scratch open your fingers on the edges.
someone follows you with
crossed arms, that look. you plead
to stay longer. before the door
the car waits. the motor starts up.

Translated by Mark Terrill