I take a seat in the amazement chair,
it transforms itself into a catapult:
the milky way hisses on my tongue.
There is no possible way out,
I know that most things happen
in the space in between,
I exist ever more distinctly
against a white, clear background,
snow-chimaera, the sun-shadow's amazement
when it topples forwards into a desolate landscape.
From the disfigured face of the dancer
white smoke is pumped out onto the paper,
and light fighter planes are ready in each word's hangar,
the prepositions lie like magnetic needles in a clear liquid,
heavy traffic on the tongue's runway,
all substance passes through the mouths of the stars
and is lived forwards, slowly and carefully.
The brain's lit-up terminal of synapses and dendrites
now form a razor-sharp aerial photo of an anger
that cannot be distinguished from the world.

Translation: John Irons