"Night approaching perfection, I float
amid languages, the brasses in death's music full of ice.
Who's up over the crack in day singing?
Water turns bitter, blood flames pale,
leaping like leopards toward stars.
To dream, you need a form.
In the cold morning, an awakened bird comes closer to truth
as I and my poem sink together.
February in the book, certain movements and shadows."
二月
夜正趋于完美
我在语言中漂流 死亡的乐器充满了冰
谁在日子裂缝上歌唱 水变苦 火焰失血
山猫般奔向星星
必有一种形式才能做梦
在早晨的寒冷中
一只觉醒的鸟更接近真理
而我和我的诗一起下沉
书中的二月 某些动作与阴影