Accept this silence: the word caught in the dark of the throat like a stiffened animal, like the stuffed boar that sparkled in the cellar during October storms. Livid and woven with straw, the dry heart, smokeless, yet against the flash of lightning that nailed the door, each time in the same exact point where death had begun: the futile backstepping, body aflame, the hunter's kick on its side.
Close your eyes. Think: hare and fox and wolf, call the beasts, chased down they race over the flatlands and are in the slingshot of dying or falling asleep exhausted inside the den where only the hunted know true night, true breath.
Translated by John Rugman