Sleep below the line. Reels of slides, a nebula
in the lungs. A dream about glass, where a child
runs. Hands combing space and the air
in camouflage; before waking up.
Sleep in a uniform, with hands on the mouth
not to reveal oneself to the hostile dawn.
Always the same face, a strictly confidential
distribution of light and shade.
© translated by Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese (first published in Poetry Wales, vol.44, no.2, autumn 2008)