This hazy, busy place. Red houses follow red
goats. We draw up plans. Speak goat and
sparkler, goat-not-kid. That should be no
surprise, we rattle bells, the sun's out. We
put pants, lay hands, a heart partially
breaks. We can surround the goat with words
Mountain starfishes in moving essences, an eyelid
flutter in March, or perhaps a touch of wind. Then
encounters take place. Dockside air. Daily business
played out, horizons with no compelling reason.
We move on, our feet on the pebbles of the street.
What was over us pulled across the sky.

Translated by Brian Currid