Waiting is soft at first, like a drop of resin,
the stifled desire of the insect you are; futile showiness
these fragile wings inside the dense liquid.
While I wait until it's time to see the children,
the day is a station entrance and summer has sat down
in the sixth row. On the screen it says that twenty years have already
passed, and you come out when the bottle of oil breaks for the second
time. You put your hand on the back of your neck to check
that the mask is in place, that's supposed to make the tiger not know where
your back is. And the tiger is the sequence where you scold
a girl for spilling the drop of water.
You can do it: change the stone of this waiting
into a coloured fish, or maybe a peach. With words
paint the grey with orange, remember that
honey-coloured wait, when the tiny child was flying
across the sand. Move and escape from the glory of
staying forever, like a fossil in amber.
Write, write, write.

Translated by Anna Crowe