I think sage when I see
sage, think grey-green hoary leaves
growing in pairs, sharp or spicy,
the flowers labiate,
Or I don't think at all, neither sage
nor plant nor scent since with too much
thinking the sage flourishes at my window
but dwindles in my head
exists then for me no more but
exists for itself and does not know what
its name is and knows nothing about
its existence, knows nothing at all, I suppose.

I think you when I don't think
sage don't think that
the swifts doze on the high
shoals of air when we lie awake
at the window I think
you when the bitter and
spicy scent in your and in my
existence breaks through knows nothing of it
and thus is born an existential
imbalance in the afternoon light
for we know we know precisely
that the whole of time is never more than
a cup hurled into the sky or even essential oil
or fittings of solitude, I suppose

Translation by Anna Crowe