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I take a thing and change its place.
I don't know why, it just bothered me.
Seconds later
the cloth, the paper
lets out a whisper-cry
as matter shifts position.
Does this imperceptible sound
express discomfort then or relief
with this new configuration
of the infinite and inanimate?
Or is it that the object
longs for its home?
A tiny little movement
a glance, a spark of light
and whoa the inner self springs up
and moves freely
in an abstract now.
Something like erotic murmuring
or the cry of a hungry dog.
"That's how matter alone must sound," I say
before another silence, my own,
snatches me up.

Aegina 11.8.1999

Translated by Karen Van Dyck