a poem: “in a shoe not yet broken-in”

like a foot in a shoe

not yet broken-in

my heart clenches and if

it’s not about size

then what?

wine, coffee, beer, maybe tea

such a sononymy, daughternomy and childnessness

and infants out of wedlock

—they’re not mine

I can’t move

(so apt that “m” and “l”

are neighbors on the keyboard—

much closer than we are)

and the gallows

suggested by parked cranes:

I hang my desolation on them

day after day

while you deal with yours in a gulp.

In some unpeopled park

during my lunch break, I’ll torture my grief

but not even my lost earring will reveal

that the criminal is



                                       Translated by Forrest Gander together with the author