Two carts squeal against hammers
until the lachrymals trifurcate
when we never did anything to them.
To that other, yes, unloved,
embittered in the open tunnel
by the one, and into harsh algid
proofs infusing spirit.
I stretched out in the manner of the third party,
much later - how will we f-f-fasten it? -
rings in my head, furiously,
not wanting to take doses of mother. The rings exist.
Tropic nuptials already threshing.
Withdrawing, better than all else,
cleaves the Crucible.
Which was not discolored
for nothing. Side by side by destiny, weeps
and weeps. The entire song
squared in three silences.
Caloric. Ovary. Almost transparent.
All has been wept. All has been veiled
in the middle of the left hand.
Translator: Rebecca Seiferle