The day regained the diversity of rooftops. The
landscape breaks from the cornice and I open the window.
In the desert on the ceiling there's no enchanted
wind. Magic is still hard to say, even palm trees
not always evident, no circling bird, no
terraces of sleep. A. can stay down on the dark red
wool blanket. Sun's just passed, pulling
the horizon. Where nomads, still without weight, do not choose
a writing. Pull on for long by the window day and
night. A finger's breadth of light for a whole commercial caravan
I say this slowly, smashing no glass.
like are quiet. With no counterpart.

Translated by Brian Currid