A dead bird lives here
in a box of threadbare shoes.
It doesn’t take its last breath here
but keeps heaving, up and down.
Here that tangle
curled about that russet tongue
through the gullet right into that stomach
has not yet been seen
Here you haven’t pulled at anything
there’s nothing bleeding,
bare skin that is far from going cold.
Translated by Willem Groenewegen
EN 
MK