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
