and
you wrote yourself the poem of it

1 August 2017

Translated by Karen Leeder

beneath you the earth, always turning. above you
the silhouette of trees against the steep
arc of the sun. the sky is splayed wide open
a moon turning in time. behind you the soundless
peaks of stone covered with ice. before you
the rubble of clouds. far below lies your
home, you wrote yourself the poem of it. inside you
the trembling needle that always points
due north, though you’ve no idea what lies there.

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