The man read and read, moving his lips; now and then his whole body started moving and then the words entered him like spirits, and began to work their mischief.

Whenever, like two people turned to stone, we sit down to a meal together or meet at the door at night because each of us has just remembered about locking up, I feel our sadness is an arch, a great bow extending from, one end of the world to the other—which is: from Hanna to me—and in the drawn bow an arrow aimed straight at the heart of the unmoving sky.

Under the olive trees the light pours out its seeds,
poppies appear and begin to flicker,
burning the oil that feeds their fire;

Rome in November evening many thanks
the smooth marble reef the cold tile-faces
the spray of lights before the gate closes

Whatever comes to pass: you know your time,
my bird, you put on your veil
and fly through the mist to me.

When at your back the seagull swoops and cries
the order to sink comes eastward into sight.

Beneath a foreign sky
shadow roses
shadow

Who is living down below? Who is crying…
Who has lost his housekey?

Nothing fairer under the sun than to be under the sun…

Filled by nothing other than our suffering.
Conform to us exactly!

I am a dead man who wanders
nowhere announced

 

Time does wonders. But should it come unjustly,
with the throb of guilt: we aren’t at home.

No one jumps off.
For we know only love

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
thorns illuminate the night. And the thunder