Erratic
Evenings delve
into your eye. Lip-
picked syllables –
a lovely voiceless circle –
help the creeping star
into their ring. The stone, once
close to the temporal zones, now opens up:
my soul, you were
in the ether with all
the other
scattershot suns.
From Glottal Stop: 101 Poems, by Paul Celan (translated by Nikolai Popov and Heather McHugh)
