Trixy
Desolate species, humans.
Everything needs to be conquered,
a thousand Buddhas can’t reverse the stream,
the stone in the middle remains unpolished.
The teachings of the titmouse.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Minus ten and it’s been working all day,
searching the hedge for a morsel.
In the distance I see the world,
in the corner, behind that car,
deeply passionate music
sweeps the litter into a heap.
It’s here alone or more.
Woe to those who have the most words.
They’re up to their knees in night,
their book of faces full of names
and mould.
In the stable thirteen goats are born.
Trixy barks at a shadow of white.
(2012) Tr. David Colmer
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