The idea is to cover up what may be profitable, to cloak;
resulting in a slow and heavy smog that smooches
close around the prize. Thus, we have these pools;
their beds of smoothed obsidian. Is it here to which
the goldbugs crawl that we so love to chase?

I am convinced. I must conclude. I know,
by flipping up a single carapace (the beetle part cut out),
inverted, still it retains that iridescent sheen;
its fault-lines already founded. It could be

a bowl: the gap between its wings well-grouted; or, upended,
a simple hill: climbed for the sake of it being there to climb.
Yet, if upended once more, will offer of itself
some gloomy presence nestled neatly in its hollow cup.

Its name of pool defines its emptiness, just as the pupil
is but the black hole through which all light poured in
is quickly deadened, can't escape; so
every risk that drips into these pools is dwindled, is
leached out, through yet further pin-pricks, hidden in the base.

Translated by J.O. Morgan