The idea of a poem
comes in through the window,
perhaps performed, with no notice.
Did I maybe manage to fool
so much lost longing. . .?
It’s as if a carpet,
as if someone placed
a carpet at my feet
and now steady I should take
sharp flights, with benevolence
of that reader whose dream nested
the reading of Boti. . .
I can’t. . .
Oh steady dream,
oh clear sails toward my red body. . .
And the idea of the poem
is no longer,
is no longer.

translated by Katherine M. Hedeen