1
No more than with the stones and the grass
or yonder blown-off hat
can there be prattle with your alabaster flesh

which in the guise of a cloud
comes drifting by. A thousand gulls on their sand
slurp razor shells empty, squawk-squabbling.

Words are grit in an inarticulate racket,
even my knee
can't grasp what I say,

let alone that you
far beyond the almighty, watery abyss
would hear any of it.

The sea a bed full of silken tassels
as if any rest were still
ever to be found there.

Translation: John Irons