It won’t get any higher. It is night-sky approaching sea-level
it is distance, from the finger pushing the doorbell
to the hot spoon pressing its divot in the food.
It is cold light scattered from unsettling cutlery,
a double portion of symptoms stirred well into some months,
the spluttering snowscape stepping toward us.
It is spoon’s metal tongue tilling
crisp white grains in the bowl, it is an excursion
to shake it awake: tuning fork’s hesitant torpor.
It is foot, inevitable departing, a step back into secondary importance.
It is naïve fibre, you reveal it
must seek help from the twilight to pry open your eyes.
It is the other kind of wet your fingers twisted,
like a hot-headed moment about to be lost
through a crack in the door, to put right the room’s scent which snapped.
* Translated by Stephen Nashef