Solitude

I have aching arms weakened

by an insipid desire to seize

something alive, that feels

smaller than me. I’d like to seize

my burden in one bound and carry it,

running, when it’s evening;

fling myself in the dark to defend it,

as the sea throws itself on the rocks;

to fight for him, as long as there remained in me

a shiver of life; then to fall

in the dead of the night on the road

under a swollen sky silvered

with moonlight and of birch; to curl myself

on that life that I hug to my chest—

and send it to sleep—and I sleep too, at last …

No: I’m alone. Alone I curl up

above my thin body. I don’t notice

that instead of a numb forehead

I am kissing like a madwoman

the tight skin of my knee.