there's a danger to remain wet

we can hear the boat growling from here

as its gray forehead systematically advances across our thoughts

we lose the necessary second of looking at ourselves

we move the mouse to another cornea and that’s it

the street light turns off, then back on

it rains sometimes, at the request of the night

there’s a tarp over the air – there you go! keep making love! poets say

the heart has become a fist

I once had stars in my blood and a drawn line

I’d show you a place with my finger but I cannot find my body or anything else

please, forgive me, love, please, don’t

apples hit the crayons in the backpack

it’s as if people would march beneath the windows

in memories

with every step, you hear the crickets ruff! ruff! in their language

although we are neither in the park

nor in the house,

nor in that place we often dream of

or which looks like happiness a little

Translated by Daniela Zăloagă for Contemporary Literature Horizon, issue 6/2013