— un šī ir karsta vasara;

tu atver mežu līdz galam,

un es ieeju skuju biršanā

                          karstumā,

un es ieeju zvēru elsās

                          karstumā,

                   ūdeni meklējot,

un tu atver ceļu līdz galam,

un akmeņi viļājas, cilājas

                         sprēgājot

                         karstumā,

un tu atver debesis līdz galam,

un nokrīt mēness kā pārplīsdams ābols,

                         kā dzeltena plūme, un

apšļakstās mežs un ceļš,

un mēs, karstumā kūstot,

        lipīgām mutēm un rokām.

And this summer is hot;

you open the forest all the way,

and I enter the pine needles falling

                                          in the heat,

and I enter the panting of beasts

                                searching for water

                                in the heat,

and you open the road all the way,

and the stones roll and lift,

                                splintering

                                in the heat,

and you open the heavens all the way,

and the moon falls like a bursting apple,

                         like a yellow plum, and

splashes the forest and road,

and we, our mouths and hands sticky, melt

                                 in the heat.

(Publicēts literatūras žurnālā Spillway)

Šo krāsu nesaderīgās māsas,

vienā ielogā iespiestas,

sakostiem zobiem plēšas un

                                   cīnās —

to roku, kas dzemdināja

un tagad atpūšas mierīga,

viņas gribētu izplūkt

kā aplamu sakni,

bet viņas ir kā zivis

zem ledus vāka,

viņas kustas un neaizkustas,

viņas raustās un nenoraujas,

viņas brēc, un viņu valoda

ir caurspīdīgi burbuļi

caurspīdīgā ūdenī.

These colors, these incompatible sisters

pressed together in a single frame,

their teeth clenched, they fight and

                                             struggle —

the hand that gave birth to them

and now calmly rests,

they would destroy

like a weed,

but they are like fish

beneath a lid of ice:

they move, and cannot move away,

they jerk, and cannot jerk apart,

they scream, and their language is

transparent bubbles

in transparent water.

(Publicēts literatūras žurnālā The Manhattan Review)

— un tad man gribējās nogaršot

                                         upi.

Bet viņa jau bija pasteigusies

iemaukties pazemes ezeros,

pacelties gaisā,

    un es redzēju

    kalstošas siekstas, drūpošus akmeņus,

    oļu un smilšu rotaļu gultnē,

          bet tas jau prasījās citādas

                                         mutes,

                un tad es sajutu

                sevi sarūkam sīku un mazu,

                sev pieaugam spārnus un

                                           knābi,

                un ar manu plati atvērto

                                           rīkli

                vālodze brēca.

— and then I wanted to taste

                                      the river.

But it had slipped into

underground lakes,

risen in the air,

          and I saw,

          in a playground of pebbles and sand,

          bleached snags, crumbling stones

          that needed a different

                                        mouth,

                  and I felt myself becoming

                  slight and small,

                  growing wings and

                                       a beak,

                  and from my wide-open throat

                  the voice of an oriole cried for rain.

(Publicēts literatūras žurnālā Denver Quarterly)