from City Streamers

Ann Jäderlund


Think of your hand as a hole
in the other’s head
Think of the blue, where it
from the part
and becomes a space
Think once again, and comes
a note
until the next takes up
The way blindness in your hard

Think of the cat
Think of the cat
Think of the cat’s paws!

Off Ring

And I ask myself: “Am I here then”
And hear my voice
pass, very loud
through the hole of my head.
And play with a hand
And play with a mouth
on the mouth’s cut

Everything is here now:
The little buttons hidden
in the fold of the lining, the seat
and the teeth

And the voice, how does the voice come
to the hole


Then how could a voice
Everything here so smoothed
in its bind:
The poor cat’s claws
over the field’s blackness
            And the black itself, just like
            that in us all

Such is a parter, he hacks
the part out of place


I’m working through
with a cut now
The hand’s sound:
Here is a hand
It lies against the disc

But it doesn’t catch.
It is blind and takes
over expanses

Do you understand now: Here is a blind
that constructs,
The word’s hand

Anagram for the Blind

And I saw blindness
It was another. He fumbled
with something in the mouth

I plucked it down
from the lips. I placed it on the eye
And made my way back
into the mouth again

What does it want to say, I thought
What does it want to say

Yes, I was that desperate
And I whispered:
—Put it away
that displaces me


Then how could a pace
Everything here so caught
in its nest:
The poor fields
of black beneath the cat’s paws
            And the cat itself, just like
            that in us all

Such is a coupler, he couples
the part to the place


I play in the box
with “a” and “k”
It is fifteen, nineteen

A man has two vowels, and we
round them
It’s the same figure. It might be

I hold onto him

To Give Yourself Away You Have to Peek

Don’t touch anymore
what is coming here
in the part
Nothing’s hiding under its tone
Nothing’s hiding

It follows,
Follows on it follows. Thrusts up
against the edge, and leans
over its own hole

Every day I will ask myself
like then;
Wonderful things, wonderful
mess between legs and logs, Sludge
and sight

Play, At Scattered Places

Here is a hand — And here is another
Here are two holes in the same: Streamers
and the city.
Here are all in us all
Here we are
And here!


Who, if my voice sprawls out
can then take it in their
No one, and that is the wonderful
in riddles that draw through trees:
                        All are here, all
                        are out walking
in small wind-driven flocks

I am so rare, I am so
            rare today and



A cat eats its bird
It’s the little bird with legs
Glimmering blue, snarled

Now it is iron
In a sour flesh

translated from the Swedish by Joel Duncan