It's ten already. Alice is 
a good girl neat and tidy, doesn't masturbate. 
At this moment, she does 
not even have fantasies. 
Now she is ready 
to listen to a surreal story. 
She has a watch, a telephone, 
a camera and a computer, 
but her real contacts 
she creates slowly, telepathically. 
She ties pink ribbons on the legs 
of pigeons at her window, 
plugs the ears of 
little dogs with wool. 
Her sun laughs only on Shabbat 
and on weekdays is indifferent. 
Her real friend is the moon 
and the fact men landed on it 
makes no impression. 
Whenever she wants 
she walk on it herself, 
peeps down from there 
on couples doing sex. 
By now she has seen 
all the positions, 
taken part in real pleasures 
and in fake orgasms. 
Sometimes she comes. 
But what makes her really wet 
are stories about wonderland 
and a huge cock of a pervert 
who desires little girls. 

Translated by: Anthony Rudolf

published in Modern Poetry in
Translation no.14, winter 1998-99,
King's College, London, page149

Lines upon lines coming from nowhere 

gather to browse in the Book of the Soul 

and rest on the seam between words and colors; 

to seek the inner reflection of the eye, 

to bring back forms from space, 

to collect demons from Siberian snows, 

and coat them with thickened honey 

to freeze them as a tinted arabesque, a white lily 

to define Time by dust sediments on Mars 

to set fine traps of beauty for the words 

and catch them on paper for good. 

Translated by: Esther Hecht
 

during siesta on a summer's day 

so that they shell have an airy shaking 

in the midst of imaginary trees 

in a surprise forest, supposing it is there 

Translation by:
Anthony Rudolf