for G. B.
Something was consuming our sunshine hours.
The sea churned in its rocky nest, luring the moon,
a smooth spirit crossing its skin, winking a bright eye.
After the cloud passed we were no longer ourselves.
After the cloud passed we were again ourselves
once we'd updated the crow's feet, maps
of the sunshine hours and those that were steeped in gloom;
memory—a spider's silk—was showing us the way.
Where are you? I'm right here—
—once again from the beginning.
Something was consuming our evening hours,
Arachne was weaving a net between the empty spaces,
the spirit journeying from gap to gap
conjuring shapes: beneath a massive sky
in the flimsy home of summer, we gathered them
to make a gift.
Translated by Bill Johnston