a swift and cold walk through history, through
the quiet woods, past benumbed deer that only pretend
to be fir trees. all along my posture is
terribly romantic. my soul is asizzle, being fried.
I know about the sweaty interlacing of bodies, and what’s more,
I watch the thing on a big screen projection,
hiding it in my palms as an awkward and bashful memory.
autumn will slowly croak into winter and I feel more and more alone,
calm in a funny sort of way. as if each moment
water surged evenly into eternity.
Translated by Ana Jelnikar