Between people and people is there anything
that doesn’t approximate its speech
to the dry leaves out behind the house –
nothing else can be so at peace,
resistant to the search for links
and hidden passageways. The evenings
undress us slowly, committed to mistakes
that contentedly sun themselves on nearby
slopes. Whatever hasn’t been lost
will soon eat into the cracks and
fall asleep. We’ll fall asleep, too.
We lazily watch our unpredictable
thoughts. Afraid of them. This much is clear.
Language conceals desire.
Betrays its own master. Spews stars
into the sky so we can talk
about them at all, and then alone
we realize how mercilessly they
ignore us. Empty plates
ignore us. The air ignores us. Drinking is a
rhythm that makes two songs out of one. But
now I’m repeating myself. This much is clear –
if we return to each other
clean and with the same, familiar features,
we’ve gained nothing.
Translation by Michael Biggins