Back home late, I find you
asleep, a curved sight
beneath the sheets. The sky is clear
and so it's very cold tonight.
With my bloodless hands
and icy feet I shouldn't dare
to lie down next to you (an uninvited
pause in your dream, reeking of drink).
The light from the fridge seems
warm in this climate, and I pitch
into the wordless message
you have left for me. A plate
of plums, and every one of them tastes
like a ripe compensation, very juicy,
sweet, an apology for something
that one admits to oneself, suddenly.

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock