Early Spring

They had already sat down on the bed. Then the man

remembered the back door was still open. He groped along the

hallway, past the dark holes of workshops and spaces. Past the

dark holes of sleeves on the communal coat stand. The house

was wide open, pulled inside out.

His hand on the latch, he saw the last stretch of snow by the

hazel bushes under the roof. It lay there white and large, like an

animal with its head raised, like a bared shoulder. Like, when

all is said and done, several things in life. It lay there white and

incongruous, by the backyard door.

He groped his way back, slowly and quietly, in case his wife

was already asleep.

Source: Everything Indicates: Selected Poems, translated by Jonathan Bolton (Blue Diode Press, 2023)