in the reliquary
of circumstantial provisos
there's been a greening
of the hoe-handle...
a quivering... a rustle,
a quiet urgency, re-writing
that shop-torn syllabus of April's renderings...
...alma sequestra...
a traveling of tongues...
mortar falls from between the bricks...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem