A plumb line dropped from the polestar
Would slice my window, top to sill
I look up now and then in daytime
See you burning there at will.
And isn’t my heart forged
To your thin light-flute?
And isn’t my pocket watch
At the end of a chain’s cold weight?
Do you creep across the night sky?
Bindweed? Or are you more snake?
You are the mote inside the eyeball
You are my own, and yet distinct.
From head to the earth’s core
You set your course at the hanging knife
My forehead bears – and if I flinch
You fall, you fall, and scorch out life.
Elena Svarts trans. Sasha Dugdale