how starkly clear you hear them gnawingat the wood of lawn chairs near the awningall day in august or july, and not much longer,till beneath their pincers every bit of fiberis ground down, and the entire piece of furnishingwas never there. birds sing, birds will have sung;wind came, wind went on; a gloom weighs on the westlit up by nothing but their fragile nests:like bright white lanterns or like swelled-up sailsbelow the roof ridge, boiled out tomcat skulls,like paper moons, some froth, a sea-spray guidon. a buzzing, humming sound above the empty garden. (Translated, from the German, by David Keplinger.) This is drawn from “Wisp.”