A flock of bats flies inside my body
Once in Saint-Émilion I entered a large house
in twelve rooms bats flew into the walls
my hosts told me I was a witch
and instead of burning me
put me to bed in the most beautiful room
I live here only with pigeons
in a building everyone abandoned
and which even I am abandoning
to walk now through the innards of apartments
and observe fingerprints of former neighbors on broken furniture
in the morning I go onto the balcony among shingles and bird droppings
such is my life
blurred windows to the past
and the sediment of dreams against soaked walls
On the Death of Viola Fischerová
Now I only dream of your vineyard cottage
your name tastes like autumn vines
Today I cut Marina’s bangs
at night in Auvergne her mother called
an ambulance for an outbreak of anguish
last night I received an evil letter from a friend
I thought I couldn’t write anymore, Viola,
but again your dead hand opened for me
the hatch to forbidden places
translation Stephan Delbos
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