Translated from German by Richard Martin
THE DAY FILTERING through cracks in the blind
and every movement generates wavy lines, itineraries:
where the shadows fall, the watery membrane. You
crouch in a picture, archaic, with eucalyptus oil
on the edge of the bath, think yourself into the rainy
season: they´ll be cutting the bark
now, on it the journey revolves concentrically
around places, and always directing someone to some beginning,
to some suspicion, some order:
borderland tension
has divided you into bird´s eye views
and body painting
on soaking finger-tips.
Then the water drains away. Outside the window,
motionless, the parallelograms. You stay
in the room, you´re an archive
that´s getting cold.