I’m a backward

sound of myself.

I twist, I turn

through sheer virulence

of habit sleep

that measures me in bursts

of agony, hoary and private.

I ask, I bless.

I speak the raw material of memory;

only flowers here still recall the dead.

I am a green begonia.

I am a red

petal on the stem of morning.

I am, I am …

Black sweetness,

save me from these shattered

words, repetitive illusions.

I am dark, uncountable.

I am the meaning of a syllable

the ancients said and dropped.

I am the one the clouds dream of

when their vapor eyes are shut.

The weeping wall, the nakedness of heart.

Disinterestedness, now let me go.

You said: its guaranteed—

the backward glance, the exit,

the twisting back, back, back …

Translated by the author