From above, you disentangle yourself
like wild geese from the landscape
never risking anything, the relief forming huge,
God-like towers, pleasing to God;
if only fog descends, the pure night
as shadow among dots of light, twisting
your fingers on my ribs, your ribs on my finger,
entangling the landscape from above – like wild rabbits
risk our landscape: my ribs on your finger,
my finger on your ribs, already rolled towards
collision, God-like, enormous shadows
pass over the landscapes; beneath the spine
the underside of things, almost hidden
in the lake’s throat, entangle from above,
like wild geese on huge, God-like towers,
your finger on my ribs, your ribs on my finger.
Translated by Em Strang and Iain Galbraith
EN 
MK