Cavern The dream is sown with multiple stains, and you are anxiously crossing over, a storm rolling over an apron while you abandon our speech, my house, our panic. Yellowish under the old sun, the cobbler beats on the anvil of the broken guilt, I cry with him as if at a funeral, but the beating leads nowhere. I wipe away the stains on the floor of the dream, while the fright still remains about today, about here: we have no home, our only home is a poem, but God looks upon and behold, it is good, he claims, even though the ancient Greek scribe with sculpted shoulders and beautiful gray beard instantly rolls his eyes. (Translated by the author) Ceiling, Autumn I have something to confess, and it's not accumulating below or under me but above It won't burst out from beneath our feet, but will be water, in pea...