Chalices hid on Easter in my backyard:
Riding bareback and never found- and now firemen
Are climbing up mountains,
And turning around with matches- in each fist
A pinwheel, or a glass container of milk-
As I burn across the Navajo Reservations north of
Gallup New Mexico,
As we all just try to figure out how to get on
A little further home:
The windmills galloping- the pilots away in the
Hayloft- the octogenarian knights eating honey bells
In the green fields who never have to offer up
Their echoes to anyone;
And yet here they come: both to churches and honeymoons-
Dripping from their bosoms, and drooling from their
Chalices that very same nectar which keeps men men,
And gods gods.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem