It’s pointless to travel among the scent of ash, to lay poppies to rest in the blind angel’s jaw.

Song of childhood: smoking skin’s opium and drinking the last drop of blues from the darkest bottle in a Louisiana bar.  Lung muzzled while the gramophone plays Bessie Smith or Billie Holiday.

A barefoot print gives her away, her clear shadow gives her away.

A crevice rummages in the penumbra.  Find yourself powerless to count the assortment of clouds at your fingerstips.

It’s beautiful to watch over the sun, naked, when night falls: the orgy of her voice low, curved within the earth.

Translated by Olivia Lott