says he: grief is a pond.
says i: yes, grief is a pond.
because grief lies in a hollow,
reeking and shot through with fish.
says he: and guilt is a pond.
says i: yes, guilt's a pond, too.
because guilt sloshes about in a hole
already reaching the flattened pit
of my stiffly upstretched arm.
says he: deceit is a pond.
says i: yes, deceit is also a pond.
because on summer nights you can
picnic on the banks of deceit
and something always gets left behind.

Translation: Nicholas Grindell