expecting the end to be any more...
or less
comfortable/causing consternation/
absurdly flavored and textured
than,
say,
the beginning/the middle/all that stretches/meanders/dribbles throughout and, being weired, pools,
then rushes
to catch up
with
that can't be caught stuff...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem