before the Elysian Fields
and venetian blinds
was he (am)
sitting on a sun
(not necessarily ours)
ball and jacksing it with
tingling stars in a puddle of dawn
tonight, OUR sun went downly drunk
with reddened nose
evenly embarassing
powdered cloud-bits
to rougeness
mostly, the night was made to make
hangovers
but she'll (yes, yes, 'i'll')
fall and be sober
as an egg, again
and someday in ad infinitum
when he's found the bottle
is discovering it is stained glass,
he won't let the sun go down
(December 1,1965)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem