New Orleans
Decisions are uncomfortable
In this atmosphere. Valves drain, swell to ballad—
Measures pound flaked light, sun over
Iron lace of a railing on Royal Street—
Metal scrolled into oak leaves, acorns, sad long horns
In the day's shadows—urinal smell, late coffee.
A life shaped by digressions: Linger long
Enough, and death might move somewhere else.
She seems drunk but is not, her white skirt webbed
With black from a fall on wet cobblestones.
Nothing is simple. There is no good news.
She lights a small cigarette. She nods off.
She drinks up, then moves on. The horns stop, sprawl,
Speed up. Snares salvo in the scorched dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem