The Return Of The Body Poem by Dirk van Bastelaere

Where I am a flower meadow
is missing, even though I'm standing in
a parched flower meadow
with hair blossoming like an orchard
in April.

But whenever I'm cut off
from me by eyes,
like that girl on the bird sofa under a vault of breathlessness,
the body comes
clumsily back and, in desperation
or love
for the kitchen table, lies shuddering on the kitchen table.

Then you think you know it's always there,
even though you're putting your trust in the vacuum
of a dream.

Someone sees all along that the jug, after pouring out
hot water
and being filled with cold water,
breaks in two
and stays broken in two.

Translation byFrancis Jones