The liquid is made of mud, as dense as blood, and carries along
chairs, tables, trees and a moped.
Like one of those bulls with knobs on its horns, it rushes unpredictably
down the main street of a town where you lived
when times were normal: a wife and children, potato
stew and the boredom of afternoons.
Who is responsible for this dark brew that backs up
like left-overs, in the toilet-bowl?
Who is the clumsy cook who has chopped and fried and mashed
in order to chuck the entire potful on to the hillside?
In the phrase, "the bridge you cross", the tense of the verb
is wrong on two counts: neither the bridge nor you is present.
"You are the most important one" is yet another example
of the feebleness of language: it should end with a full-stop.
On your birthday you took some toffees
into school for your friends. It seems you were doling them out
too slowly: they threw themselves upon you and
tore your school pinafore.
Always the same mistake: ask for rain.
You want some soup?—Have it! Here, this sweetie-jar
has nothing to do with my heart. Crawl about on the floor, cement
your teeth together with that moment and its clamour.
Let me pick the memories from out of the hours and
the rubble.

Translated by Anna Crowe