Then I will go to California to
Look up:
Bottle rockets over a sharp and homeless
Field,
And razors of fiends in the park with
Lights as blue as a church’s;
And I will take flight,
Moving across the plateau we stole
From Mexico—
Underneath spaceships which seem like
Angels, and the airplanes their dogs:
The delights of a heavenly scarred
Adolescents,
A playground behind the steering wheel:
Looking up,
I will see mother and father and other old
Loves pretending to be real.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem