Of all cruel thoughts, the one of others being like you
is the most drenching. It takes from them what is theirs:
the way their hair grows, the colour of their garments,
the shape of their handwriting, all blurred, like moss.
If I think that you are like me, I no longer see
that laughter is a tangle of air whirled in the rattle-bag
of your throat. Or that afternoons can be still,
for an endless instant, like humming-birds drinking.
When you think you are like me, I leap from branch
to branch to escape from your wet, licking fire.
Who is it has blown too hard? Who has said
they know what we're like, or that time has to be chewed,
every mouthful, fifty-five times?

Translated by Anna Crowe