Jack Spicer makes me weep this morning
waking up, bitterest espresso and heart's
tourettes, expostulations against what is
trying to enter in through the window...
workman on the roof across the passage,
shirt off, sweats, gleams, banded brow, is
loudly singing in creosote, the sweetest song,
of black hands,
black eyes wet,
black brush strophing
tar thick in slow rhythms
'Coo coo roo coo coo, paloma'
then Spicer breaks to shadows
across the page, a fruit fly insists
upon the sweetness this poem,
Spicer's gift:
'I am going to ask Christ to give
me back my childhood, ripe with sunburn and feathers and a
wooden sword.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you. Spicer sometimes talks to me