this hair is snow-white, this hair
is black, growing again at the root.

we became liquid. eventually we were
liquidated. so we drifted off, bees

saved in dawn's shimmering honey.
sacrifice, invocation, food for the dead.

how your voice unfolded! , its lowland
luminosity in the blacklight of the sunflower

we flow into, sleepless, honey, the liquefaction
of words: a hunger, deeply felt, for everything.

Translation Peter Filkins