If I set fire to the white frame of the house, will the flame burn
brighter than the weight falling off our bodies?
Brighter then the samba? Brighter than my watery head?
I'm in the snow. You are dancing. Under the gigantic

green trees with your sad watery eyes.
We're listening to the rhymes and slippers of your paintbrush.
Of meadows in which you see moss and what's under
the mixed moss. A white lynx scratching in a dark green throat.

Does the sky ever stop itself up and rattle? Where do you rest?
In an avalanche or on the earth? I gorge myself here, gorge myself,
swelling to keep from being torn apart in the heights

by the clouds, pink, blue, and violet, and the flowers,
like Tiepolo, the air cleansing itself behind him,
before the light floods and crushes us.

Translation: Christopher Merrill and Ana Jelnikar