Marcel Beyer

She spoons the blue out of a barrel

in the shed of paint, the Russian

blue. The marked papers in the side

room, the oil and film, the picture

postcards, first aid drawing, the

blueprints manuals turned blue. We

do not read but wade across the open

machine room, with a dustpan we

spoon the blue into a bucket. The

collar stands up and the skies

inaccurate, here in the camp, the wood

and no-go area the navy skies do fall,

pathces of fresh cloud-blue fall off

the wall. You are still spooning, I

turn the log books in the side room,

shimmering shoe and blue hand.

Translation: Norbert Hummelt