At certain hours my eyes grow
dark, then I race back into my
darkness before the first words
come out: At the inn table at three
in the morning, then something else rattles in
the throat, then someone lies
in the cot, his dark eyes
staring up at the ceiling, far back.
And later still, about half three, the eyes
further darkened: mustard, the dirt on fly screens,
wiener, and muggy, cross-country.
At certain hours, moment, relic:
staring at phones, at night in an armchair
out of the way, wrapped up, and plugging cables
seeing, waiting, weakly, before
the first words come out, there,
back with dark eyes.

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock