(Translation: Paul Vincent)
White flannels with which you wash your old father
harden in the night into envelopes for
unwritten letters to each other (one day there’ll be a machine, Pa,
which with electrodes on the scalp will register and print out
the epistles you wrote only in your thoughts, never noted down. So they
will lie after your last breath in a pile exactly
your own length). For God’s sake, keep your legs still, Father!
Perhaps there grows in the brains of parents who are changed
unnaturally by their child, an image of always the same
weird, impossible flower – draw it in the steamy mirror –
like a new species of flower runs riot after
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