I thought that time would work indirectly,
with a light erosion, a slow mould,
that he, from the shadow, gnawing at a lukewarm bird's leg,
would allow a low-educated wind to do the job,
if necessary would send someone
to steal away a space or discreetly collect a couple of tints.

Why didn't I see it myself,

wet and blinded by the sun looking in the camera
of your eyes,
pleased to once more feel solid ground, tongue on upper lip,
pleased to be reminded of certain muscles, all the veins
reopened for the sweet high of the blood group, the home run,

why didn't I see how

time itself had done most of the work
and had apparently decided
in the short-term, between the surf and my things,
in a couple of flashes, with one's own hands, firmly
with the cudgel, and hop and

rap and another

clap.

Translation: Diane Butterman