If you’d placed your fist in front of me first, an iron glove,
I’d have made love out of it.
When the body fills with rising bubbles
and the earth sends forth the ability to stand upright,
I will make lilies flower in stone.
Some call living without bones a handicap, and there’s always fantasy
Now, without a future, I’m eating
a cold meal straight from the heart’s bowl.
Time approaches me like a small animal
seeking protection in the steam given off by ice.
I desire this chilly life as if I were dead.
Look, a glove in front of me will remain a glove, an iron fist,
even an egg. Everything here freezes within its borders.