It was your evening, uneven boy. Your eyes get smaller as evening comes on. Long ago I was taught not to hold out my hand, so when I come home by some chance taxi, I’m thinking of kissing, thinking of the platforms we could say goodbye on, if by some miracle we’d met.
Oh, no exaggeration – I feel God’s will in these bright nights. But in my home, drought and withered ferns, no one calls by. To close my eyes here means to look at paws smeared with juicy fat, means to face up to the fancy floor above, means to horn over. You can come into me like into a swamp.
Uneven boy, right behind the lilac in the square – all my lymph;
the shroud possessed from lips.
Translated by David Malcolm