Day has come. But who makes that
True? Not the woman with her hand
Beside a light switch. Also in the hall,
Not the red sweater around a body.
What has not ever become untrue?

Until once again, knitted on my sleeve,
The thing frees itself from the thread
And creeps as if it comes sailing on:
Turquoise ship on a red sweater
A wool smokestack and not there.
And that the thread knew where to find me.

Day has come, but without a sound.
Between the nothing
That the day creates
And the nothing after a scream
A small turquoise ship

Of difference.

Translation by Kendall Dunkelberg