Woman reading. The room’s a bedside riot.
The wind flows against the grain. Insect-like
her position: plus proche, Indian face. She’s
this fold in space. Farther, set to the side.
Unknown. She opens her arms. Is the bridge
her limbs build. « Here the tongue’s between the
lines. » Needles, nerves’ knifed edges, hard
liners. Or perhaps our reader drops. She
falls to her knees. In her flight a river’s
rushing sound.

She says she sees nothing. Short waves.
Her tongue is a well. The walls drain out.
Hold that breath a moment. While she
neglects the light. Closer, « I have always
said, immer » or that the bottom arrives
with the stomach’s wall. The air’s full
measure. A second room within the first.
I will not articulate these words which
come over me. So it’s written « nothing,
just something beautiful ».


Closer at end of day. Game of figures
taken up again. White-fall. I blanch once
more the impacted words. Ice-bound in the
wood. A game of sugar cubes. I blanch once
more in a blind alley. The reader that
shadow upon me. Second reader now
cites the first, quoting her. Emission. I
am that shadow in the midst of me. I’m
on the ground again. Nothing, words in the
night, immer, I am, this is where I walk.

There’s no time left. The tongue dries in the sun
of the walls’ interstice. There are seconds
of rain, seconds of silence. An unknown,
« nothing, only a chill ». Blackness of the
gullet’s fumes. Legs outspread, body at its top
balancing toward its bottom. The tongue
in hands, between them. One more thread in cur-
ving veins. A start. Another thread in nerve’s
knifed edge. She spreads her fingers. « Once more,
not yet. » Reader, immer, nothing, only
something black.

Translated by Olivier Brossard & Andrew Maxwell