The sheet of paper
tears
the plane from its
window, the sky chalks white,
the cock flares up
in its comb

The tables clears off
what the dying day still
stacks. The door does
not chase it away, it
leaves the assumption ajar
an exit

A quietening down
fills in closeness

The room anchors

In the trampled heat
the boulders under the tongue
fall silent

Translated by John Irons