You can read the introduction here and the first part here


I seek solace and I console, as if

I’d found a distance to keep.

Some have turned away,

Afraid of my silence,

Which is clear as mountain water. It’s

Me who’s supposed to talk. Talk. Some of them

Fish in the murk, in the hope of not

Seeing what is on the hook



Wallowing in the cloud

That does not lift.

Looking for you. For

Hide or hair. Summer

Freckles and body art. Tattoo. Untitled,

Wandering in the cloud

On unilluminated veins,

On nasal ridges and knees,

In orphaned towels.

Grazing on the cloud,

Eating nothing. Crying

With the cloud,

Shunning umbrellas.


Your picture’s come unfixed,

Almost always spring steel

Tensed in a frame

That you destroyed

After the lines had

Found their forms:

Kidneys, eggs, beans,

Barbapapa. Sausages made

From meat and excrement.

Roses and rosettes.

The unheard-of now owned

By the unwittingly



Greed is a gravedigger

Who’s also disguised as

A singer, a starlet and

A bit-part player. Greed

Beds your body in a cheap

Coffin, she even clutches at

Your ashes and in the end

Destroys any and all wishes.


In the morning I remember the celestial

Sign of your liver spots. I

Draw it on my skin

Between scars and creases

Venus waits in vain

For evening.

Translated by Geoffrey C. Howes

Photo by Elle Hanley