At 4 a.m. old photographs of Lisa
between the pages of a science fiction novel.
My nervous system recoils like an angel.
Everything lost in the kingdom of words at
4 a.m.: the voice of the redhead sounds the depths of devotion.
Old photographs, houses in that city
where we slowly made love.
Practically a woodcut, scenes
in motionless succession, frond in the dunes.
Asleep on the table I say I was a poet,
a little too late, a loved one awakes,
no one has burned the candles of friendship
Translation from Laura Healy