there is no proof that we
swept in here together. Not even
the bright squares of the steep streets, that shoulder
horizon from behind the line of mountains into the
sky in reality however reflecting the bright
spots inside of me, are a proof
of the origin of the bright spots.

Or actually the window in my body,
which is steep streets, draped around the town
forms a deep cleft, which in metaphorical
logic would be you, anyone could sweep into
us, we'd be connected by streets, parks
trottoirs (and by an é)

yes, and a river would flow through the town
with bridges and boats, simply
for the sake of the metaphors. And on the banks
children would stand and wave, but that

is another town through which
we once drifted, with no proof here either
not even the shattered
light upon the water, which in reality
reflects the whirling dots inside me
or is my body a river, you choose
what you'd be, according to the metaphorical logic
(something beginning with i) or I
or you or

Translated by Anna Crowe