From Bitter Green (Fence Books, 2015; Buenos Aires Poetry, 2022, translated by Graciela Gugliemone and Patricio Ferrari, preface by Cole Swensen).
ouvrir ouvrir the nightingale
how has it come to this?
love is a severed foot
cattled in the guts
a trifle flipped
love is a tree of apricots
all rotted
I can see
it breathe I think
how has it come to this?
the fruit my bliss disdained
a trifle shattered in the breeze
The story over having wished it otherwise
The water surface/friendship
The drunk euphoric
Good Friday music
Not in this lifetime
A fig tree grows
No miserable deed will do
Space and time, dimensions that just bring more of this
For everyone who has a nose
Show gratitude
A king sat in a box
8 pm. Friday
rain defeating snow
a space too narrow to pass through
(Late of the Moscow Poems)
Her revolutionary boyfriend says:
Silence!
The crow reckons
In its comic attire
You walk like an asshole!
Old man.
I'm so tired before
I'm even born.
The Sun can't make it
This winter
We'll have to make do with this bucket
And a bottle of vodka
You say you are unjappy
Well what would happiness be
You seem to enjoy it whatever it is.
And your pants are tight
And you get fucked
The cloud wilst past
My door—and again
The light returns—opens
Like a fridge I'm in.