I chisel you out of marble, take a quick bite of your shoulder
my teeth grating across your marble shoulder.
However often I chip you out of the chalk cliffs of my mind
it seems as though you barely fit inside a memory.
Sometimes I can still find your boyish eyes through the gashes in the day,
the saffron, we sprinkled on our lips, more often
you walk past the place to where I can imagine you
chasing an atlas moth and then I chop and chop
you again from the chalk cliffs and I scream that we, since the beginning of mankind,
that’s what you said, that we, since the beginning of mankind, have
licked the honey from each other’s hair, light breaks onto the bathtub
mingles with the foam of this reckless quiet water
in which I carve the final lines, lay your hands in a triangle,
the gentle slope of your hips in contrapposto.
I pin an atlas moth to your breast.
Translated from Dutch by Michele Hutchinson