A fit body doesn’t exist. There are only space,
extension, endless possibilities,
the fact that you can touch that birch tree there,
fetch the big white stone from the ditch.
The sick body is everywhere: the room, courtyard,
path to the well, the house and the pale-blue sky
are all full of it. The sick body
is so big that everything touches,
hurts and injures it. A spruce branch swaying
at the fence comes in and bruises your face.
The wind swinging the witches’ broom
blows through your breast.
The swallows’ cries hit you like hammer blows.
Night falls like an old wet blanket on your eyes and mouth.
*