The middayâspring-woundâwith its lilac skin
cracked along a fold, reveals a path to blooming,
the nest feels heavier, and death
doesnât submerge in a jar of iridescent honey.
Earth is moist with perspiration, which dries up as it slithers
into the wood-pulp,
the way a sequence of hours ripens,
precluding that awkward tension,
which holds the stalk trembling against the wind.
The surface of the waterâs stillâas it absorbs
into its very depths the glow of poppies.
Loveâs premature, and lips
are fraught with salt and silence.
--Translated by Dana Golin