Knee deep in mud. For centuries, we have stood where the bogwaters suck.
In the grasp of the inanimate,

there are no straight lines. A sack race is good for a laugh.
And like the Lord’s own trumpets, funnels multiply in the muck.

Once again, darling, yours is a resinous, intimate whisper.
Once again, I’ll bring you pelts and sprigs of heather.

There are fewer and fewer animals in the capital.
Less and less often
are the torches of bears
raised above the tall
towers of apartments.
More and more often,
they fall down
shrieking
in an eclipse.
Snorting, they lick
the ears of stone sailors on rooftops.

Ma vie en est à son milieu, on pourrait planter un compas dans cette date.
La ligne de partage des eaux entre les fleuves Sud et Nord est un kilomètre absent.
La prenant pour un tunnel, tu sens comme sont étroitement alignées
les couches de molécules, tu bondis sur la poche du sous-sol qui sous toi se retourne.

Зходячись, зникають один перед одним
терпляче —
через ведмедя і рибу — до ракоподібних,
які обліпили душу свою.
Тупцюють. Мружаться, наче змінюючи лінзи,
обом вочевидь пояси на куртках.