translated by Forrest Gander

 

 

Two bumblebees

extract nectar,

sweet and bitter

from the center

of the rose-colored petals

of a flower which is not a rose.

Sated,

they thud against the picture window

again and again,

fixed on escaping

with their bounty inside them,

into the air behind them,

incognizant that the path to freedom

has been eclipsed,

incognizant

that they are drawn

to an illusion.

With the blood honey

in their guts

already a part of their

rapturous marrow.

And distinct.