Translated by Francis R. Jones



from Tokens of identity

1. All that matters is for things to make a sort of sense,
the chance to be part of a whole, belong to a group,
a collective. People getting changed between
the low hedges by the barbed
wire round the dunes.

Playing-cards drop on an outspread towel, the picnic
under cloth in a wicker basket, sand heaped
over a bottle from the distillery where
one of us has worked that day. Like
everyone else we run to the sea

and back again, tap sand out of our shoes on the path,
embracing the unspoken in every conversation
when we say goodbye and feeling empty

in a tram as the driver announces
...