Memory thought of as rain
and rain like a magnifying glass
over the small print of the landscape.
Or the murmur of verse, maybe, spoken
in tones harsh though inaudible
behind the left hand's screen
lengthening vowels—accents placed
on clover already wet, on
the road's pebbles.
Transparency, but also
convexity at the edge of the drops:
as if the world offered its outer edge
in profile, or the outer edge of pleasure
bordered on agony.
And through the even rain
unbelievably perfect
crossing the park, a sleepwalker,
the huet-huet.

Translated by Julian Cooper