Erín Moure & Elisa Sampedrin
MIS/TRANSLATION
 

No Evening

 

Oh trembling ink, we give all to you
in our princess sleep of mortal steel
saying:
­– how you mirror my jute
its cord soared unto the vault
saying:
– how you mirror my heron
its cord barbarous and twice stilted in sand
– but aren’t you women? it intervened
­– but aren’t you this cord? we intervened
No one took us up to answer
The black pests in their shoes gave us chase
and we scrammed,
till the cold was striding decorously over the bridge, alone
Our sleep of mortal steel pested the
fold of the vault and of harmony, of herons, of the shores of the field,
of serpents, of pigs, of capriciousness
all these and no one, no one.

 


(until we too trembled in the ink and folded)


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