I open something, but sunlight separates my
shoulder blade. A grocery shop shines
vulnerable, swinging in the neighbour's backyard. Now
I walk along the street, exchanging words with bushes
and lettuce and the public bus becomes like a
fast garden. Nice day, you can expect
aeroplanes that break white, small fingers, we
say, thus the blue begins, it's still worth
the injuries, the air is good, seems audible on my
sweater chest. A row of houses shudders me
with all its windows and doors, moved, ringing,
my ticket card hand. And I'm about to begin
having my accident.

Translated by Brian Currid