there were people who
when they coughed covered
all of their face & disappeared: lisa rothe, whatever
we found in her bedside table was enough
for the insect blackness of her feet
supplies for the footlamps
in the snow, oil and phlegm, so

there she kept the light, the parts
of the mirror, we broke it open, we found
the imprint of a sleeping head &
her excrement, water & soft

remarks about ourselves, the ticking
of potatoes in the pantries, the inner paddock, she
had shrunk so much under the din
of a street, a river, a

bismuth stadium, so
lifeless was she
in the spotlight of her purpose lamp, wobbled
like a soft dish,
a hard dish, until you slept, soft dish, hard dish... we

ourselves had folded the bedding
far back from the snow
washed cheekbones, mistle blood... but
we endured the smell, the personal

infections, an
eastern suburban dance teacher,
slower than a mandrake, gave birth… no,
one can't hear anything anymore, now

one really can't
hear anything anymore, quietly
the meat in the jar flanks
her coarse standing &

her well-kempt sleep, it is
september, the
animals are crowding
into the house, nothing amiss

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser & Gabriel Rosenstock