The gentle curve of the throat
when you say a word,
the shadow on your breast and
the outline of the hand
sliding up your side,
that incarnate whiteness
almost lost
in a pattern of fine lines.
The smallest feature, but pure,
prints linked in a segment:
form, colour consistent.
Only the detail,
on becoming the object
and the fixed place
of our senses
creates a present
and not less fleeting
or lost or futile
the instinct to oppose
an inner quality to time
and pretend for a moment
the world is eternal
before the trail
escapes you and
is lost in the deep.

Translated by Boris Peters