Ingeborg Bachmann's [At the Hoofbeat of Night]

Another Bachmann poem that I've marked up a bit. Too lazy to include the German original.

[At the Hoofbeat of Night]

At the hoofbeat of night, of the black stallion before

   the gate,

my heart flutters as it once did and offers me its saddle

in flight,

red as the halter that Diomedes lent to me.

Powerfully the wind blows before me on the dark streets

and parts the black curls of the sleeping trees,

such that the fruits dripping with moonlight

fall and stun my shoulders and sword,

and I hurl

the whip towards an extinguished star.

Only once do I slow my stride, in order to kiss

   your unfaithful lips,

your hair becoming caught in the reins,

and your shoe dragging through the dust.

 And I still hear your breathing

and the word with which you beat me.

 [Translated by Peter Filkins]