I translate from memory.
The dark room. Camera obscura. The place of making. Where light is reclaimed.
Death is an exhalation. The breath is drawn out of the body like a string of raw fish.
Only the translator has to remember to breathe in again.
Failure is not liking your reflection in the mirror.
The sea is grey-green. The sky is grey-green. Only the lighthouse at night points the way.
The translator stands in no man’s land, crucified there where the grass will grow. By
standing on the line, he negates what he doesn’t see, the eye slowly opening.
ONE contains every number bar one, which in chemistry isn’t written down anyway.
One wishes he were a haiku poet, the other wishes to get away. One wishes he had
entered the church, the other wishes he had stayed.
The other is God (theos). The word is love. And we all will drown.
This thought has kept me awake.