Is there so little time left? Oh but of course
I remember (if it weren’t for him we wouldn’t have been
here). We collected pebbles in our pockets
we examined ourselves in a spoon. The roar of a train racing past
deprived us of our voices.
Chorus. A low tuned guitar. Veinlet
before the sting cold metal on the head
when our height was measured (what hatred you felt).
At the cinema sponge picked out of the armrest
the sudden endings of films. We stood up the seats crashed shut.
Above our heads the house lights rattled.
© translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones