Your hair curls again when I start to cry. With the blue
of your eyes
you set the table of our love: a bed someplace between
summer and fall.
We drink what someone else has brewed, neither you, nor me,
nor a third:
we sip some empty and final thing.
We see ourselves in the mirrors of the deep sea and we
pass food more quickly to one another:
the night is the night, it begins with the morning,
it lays me down right next to you.
Paul Weinfield: Translations 