Distant relationships keep ringing
From the coffin’s phone booth,
In the backyard the wolves are howling
To attract the moon closer,
To eat her when her penumbra smiles:
This is the way the world is moving,
Like a ride at the fair you pay to get on:
Now you are about to throw up
All your loose thoughts onto her sodden lips:
Looking down, she smiles up
Somewhere between Hildebrand
And East Bumblef*ck, the people
In their cars driving around the blue suburbs:
The tract housing, the quiet way the
Middle of America feels when it
Goes sleeping through the long sashaying prairies:
The ins and outs between the gilded city
And the wounded wilderness:
In the blink of her eye: cargo trains,
Native American Museums,
Ice-cream parlors, abandoned warehouses,
Homes of the criminally insane:
All the materials laid in the warrens
For the bodies to move amidst life’s shadows.
Seeming to be friends, they step on this,
The broken glass cracks a little more
And changes the appeal of its light:
From the saloon, I can see you crying
In the window:
They are playing our song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem