we can hear the boat growling from here
as its gray forehead systematically advances across our thoughts

we lose the necessary second of looking at ourselves
we move the mouse to another cornea and that’s it

the street light turns off, then back on
it rains sometimes, at the request of the night
there’s a tarp over the air – there you go! keep making love! poets say

the heart has become a fist
I once had stars in my blood and a drawn line
I’d show you a place with my finger but I cannot find my body or anything else
please, forgive me, love, please, don’t
apples hit the crayons in the backpack
it’s as if people would march beneath the windows
in memories
with every step, you hear the crickets ruff! ruff! in their language
although we are neither in the park
nor in the house,
nor in that place we often dream of
or which looks like happiness a little

Translated by Daniela Zăloagă for Contemporary Literature Horizon, issue 6/2013