To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings. . .
Pink scraps of clouds, a plum-colored sky.
The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.
The cold focuses like a lens. . .
Now night falls, its hair
caught in the lake's eye.
Such clarity of things. Already
I've said too much. . .
language must happen to you
the way this black pane of water,
chipped and blistered with stars,
happens to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem