As if a train cut me in half;
And as I bleed the back of my head moves
Into my sight; God the bully
Has punished me with these copies.
A tin voice I thought Ì´d buried.
Short trousers. Teeth of a kite.
And an inside as creaky as an old mill.
A stairway too tight at the end,
Barrels to be filled, cold with echoes.
I am trapped in a paper bag
Full of birds, soft and sick-warm
Falling on cracked pavements.
It often rains in early evening.
The night sucks you out.
You wander and seek others.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem