The day, squander

whatever you do, do it
into glad oblivion:
it all blooms without memory

(look at the wild thyme
in the loins of a pre-Provençal night)

there is no port in the port
only the dew and the ropes

there is no longer no longer

there is no longer
the sell-by-tag on a swordfish
in a shop for maritime gear

how deep is the ocean
(at an unclear point
where the text's not quite tight
and the poet's the brainburger)

I two-timed with the losses
up to the roadstead, where this insane
joggling whinnied like a taxi nag

what you must do, let it go
into glad transport

the forgetfulness of a street
corner that I was

when you outside the ice cream parlour:
a beanpole with woodruff

the Gnostic worm, the glowing
thread of a colony of lanterns

count me among the berries
count me among the quinces

make me flitter
before a fluttering blackbird gown

Tom Schulz
translated by Nicholas Grindell