I

Imperceptibly cultivating a style, wind from the Northwest
and the garage door compose a flowing rectangle

the emotional project, strung out
it hangs before us, in the air, breathing laboriously

we seek to bind love's structures
in conversation, in the long forest-walks
through fog.

II

The heart foams heavily in its gazebo of pain
wild vines, screams, dry roses, silence

darkness spreads geometrically in quiet rows
in the island's hem of water lilies, floating pond scum
and forests are and
premises, within which you vanish

the area, naturally artificial, correctly incubated
the loneliness of your mud boots, pragmatic
under your white knees

and in the evening can we not hear, behind the drunken roar
of lost witnesses, your swans in the biosphere, singing.

III

Always in shades of tiredness
snowed in, in mountains, in plains, in one's own body
to encounter—a
distant shore, overgrown with light,
floating in self-invented fog . . .

Odd correspondence with narcissi, saxifrage
this special technique was called "living", "home"

instead we wanted to go deeper into the distilleries of tenderness
to never end this undistracted Yes

words, their sorrow, penguin tracks on the pack ice
—to look at you walking, breathing, to contemplate
your childish fists in sleep . . .

IV

Speaking exhausts the community of pain
future settles on thought like a mold, like fire

in the rotunda, a red horse standing there, made from copper
the blood in your fingers, the party lights
ring the trees like a wilted piano.

To walk around, restless, striking a few keys
sometimes the music lures something out

the instant in the play of twigs
a longing, carved out of cheap stone lovers announce the night

cold fusion, centaur

whoever steps within range of trees is alone.

Translated by Christian Hawkey