Carnassial fists stained by a cracked sky
torch amidst the ancestral boles
eye without shores without memory
god and one that your blue fumes do not importune
by death and feasting
with in his nostrils unhoped for flowers
with on his back the youthful flight of the curlew birds of phosphorescence
and a perfidious chance alive
in the indestructible ruins of his silence
Co-translated by Clayton Eshleman and A. James Arnold
from Solar Throat Slashed (Wesleyan Press, 2011)