There is a life that withdraws from the subject at
dinner and slowly grows inwardly

and although my voice box reiterates a laryngal
it gets snared in itself (that bird-black

that colours your thoughts of a tree
a flock that cannot think of a better place)

won't listen because everything recalls
would you like white and points towards or red

but my fear that it isn't a flock at all
is greater than my dread of death yes red please.

Game soup is served.

Can someone chase away these lonesome swans?
They cut figures of eight in the waterway.

Then I will let the night tree take root in me
and sway. Seek images for serene.

I spill birds on the tablecloth.

Translation: 2008, Donald Gardner