The entire sky is squatting. An intransitive thirst.

To speak in a foreign tongue
is like dressing in borrowed clothing.

Helga confuses the meanings of land and landscape.
(What kind of person would you be in another language?)

You, sometimes, you make me notice that
this vocal
string instrument of mine
sings out of tune.

In the light well of language,
prosody gets hooked
on my dress.

I will tell you something about my problems with tongues:
there are things that I cannot pronounce.

Like when I observe you seated and I see only
a chair-
ceci n'est pas une chaise.
A camera obscura projecting onto gray matter.

To pronounce: if the poem is
an exorcism, a phase transition ; some humor
solidifies to abandon us.

That's how phonation is, enthalpy.

But you are absolutely right:
my vocalism leaves
much to be desired.

(If I stop looking at your teeth
I won't understand anything of what you say.)

The sky shrinks. Helga smiles in italics.

And I learn to differentiate between a beard and a bird
beyond one's taking flight
if I try to trap it
between my hands.

Translation: Lawrence Schimel