we met them in the woods within a clearing:
two expeditions passing through the twilight
eyeing one another silently. between us the nervy
telegraphic buzzing of a swarm of gnats.
my grandmother was renowned for her recipe
for champignons farcis. she locked it
in her grave. whatever's good, she said,
needs filling with little more than with oneself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem