in the spaces there is possibility. in your pockets
there is emptiness, plum-coloured and gritty.
the spaces between the words resonate
carefully; the signified leaks imperfectly
into its surrounds, words acquiescent
in their failing. the space is a trickle
of water sliding between dinner plates
stacked drying on the sink. the word
evades you, leaving only the space
around the small bird inside
the egg. on the next page
is another space for failing
or falling. then the word means
only the word; today green is no more
than greenness. in the spaces
there are possibilities. finding them
is learning to crack a melon seed
with your teeth into perfect halves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem