We look at windows and balconies as we look
at a pack of deer. But we make no sound
to rouse them, we don't duck down beneath any broad horizon
we just sit down. We're quite happy, drinking and smoking,
when the apartment block creaks, quite seaworthy
that, a screwless freighter for cut blooms. The
rows of windows and balconies are encompassed by
unblurry unanimity. In a room
another child plays with shoes, cut blooms
of a storm captain. The shipwrecked stand below,
call out. Flaming wisteria arches, we feel the
closeness of our hands and feet, o chestnunt branch
who, but who has found a shipwreck? Who is the
storm? Birches, birches, when we drown we are
birches.

Translated by Brian Currid