view frame: the dried oil
on the benches. beneath it the hard
cracked soil the ochre of the stalks the train
shunts slowly onto the rails, past houses
and pillars the piled-up tyres the eyes
fall back, scan the embankment for sand and soot
on the fingers remnants of varnish the wiry handles
of the emergency brake behind the ear tapping the rhythm
firmly into the skin. up to the border
everything settles down to the to
and fro of the neck, the cut gems
on the necklace, cameras and the clicking
of eyes looking up. the shy glance
behind the window, at a distance
it follows the wind. then again fences
holding the sand dust eucalyptus trees
the day lies limply between the hills
above it the sun, calm, a bright spot
in the picture of the landscape, somewhere behind
the sea is ticking

translated by Hans-Christian Oeser, Gabriel Rosenstock and the author