In my other language the fog is always yellow and the light is the light of afternoons. The trains are always silent, and derailed, and the men on bicycles, circling the crash site, are never only that: they are growing into one another, like men into cockroaches and cockroaches into women. A Frenchman watches a parade while hanging from his belt, and the fog comes in, the colour of mustard, the colour of children // with kidney disease laughing in the other language at the men’s faces turning blue, turning purple, turning black, turning soft. And I’m pissed rotten pissing blood in the Hofgarten until I collapse, and I never have to wake up, and when it rains nothing is compelled to grow. Or else it grows the other way, so we don’t have to see it: a garden under the ground, stretching for miles, stretching for the sake of stretching, like the dogs on the mud, their tails in the air, forbidden to dig, and growling, and drained of air.