Direction finding Poem by Nico Bleutge

the gaze marks out the field its roaming
takes its measure from the tongue which mono

syllabically lifts up sand and cross and tin and sign
by sign it scrapes together the names

coats of paint blocks streaks of loam
smeared on the graves … our father

protect his dry skin a wooden
cipher … the hands the gaze melts slowly

fingers creep along the stone ribbons
and wreaths roses made of coarse faded

material brushes the traces a light still falls
perpendicularly on the granite surface the dust keeps

the names hidden the mouth seeks
to dampen what's brittle and quietly

skin comes off the palate the voice

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock