He stowed his oxygen
and staving standard expectation,
leapt early from the long range bus
- a harrier released,
no masses in attendance-
and boring blindly to the core
battered thumping steps we only heard
along the smudgy edge of crumbled soil
in unseen raindrops double-blown by spouting underlip and wind
and, deep in a cliff of shadow,
tore northerly past random patient stones and us,
all his knees undoing, down the graph of time
he never thought to read;
and crushed the need
you might have thought,
til osteopathy
cagily winched him upright
and balanced his pounding again,
into the cluttered night
of the haring world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem