Your body of grass. Your spirit of silver. And I
forget again how you hid my age
in the attic, among the sleeping dogs, feel only
how your muscles swell like accomplices in my bed.
Each time I wipe the melancholy from my forehead,
you bring my future back into circulation,
you lay your most naked facts on my skin.
And I bite you, make love to you, stroke with all your fingers
my loss of memory. I know: you’re gone
and present like a myth, and yet you’ll remain forever
my doctrine, my burning doll, my silence
in a mysterious attic.
Your body of grass. Your spirit of silver. Forget
the museum value of our love.
From Night and Navel (2017); translated by Paul Vincent