here, down where dry moss crackle
is stretched like taut groundcover & your
footsteps knock. something of the upper tree-sway

is all germanic saga; cloud-heroes who
lean into each other, shoulder to shoulder, up
in the branches' clatter. & something

of the kid swing's extension
out to its zenith, its pause in the bolted wish-frame
behind closed doors, behind the light. everything
is as it seems

down-scaled, ongoing; reports arrive:
"-and he's Swiss!"
"no, he's dead"

Translated by Ken Babstock