“We sleep like wine in the conches” (poem) (Paul Celan).

Corona

 

Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.

From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:

then time returns to the shell.

 

In the mirror it’s Sunday,

in dreams there is room for sleeping,

our mouths speak the truth.

 

My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one:

we look at each other,

we exchange dark words,

we love each other like poppy and recollection,

we sleep like wine in the conches,

like the sea in the moon’s blood ray.

 

We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from the street:

it is time they knew!

It is time the stone made an effort to flower,

time unrest had a beating heart.

It is time it were time.

 

It is time.

 

 

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