THE TREMBLING OF YOUR LIPS under language's

wakefulness: winged broom, herdsman's gaze

grow out of the land at the horizon. An open

space beneath floating particles which connect

unbridgeables with each other. We are passers-by

in words, you say, and complain that time

pierces your soul. Peat. We see bog bilberry

change into bushes, and even nthe retina is on loan

to breath. Is it really a dreamt

summer hour? Behind our backs

the sun's like a rustling piece of baking paper.

The sky folds up our tiredness.

Translated by Richard Martin