I stood security the first six weeks.
Nobody minded the moon. The sun
you could reason with. Other
weathers, otherwise.
We smuggled a tunnel whole into the withering mountain:
a gut, an intubation,
fed it along length by strenuous length. Now &
then it kinked & squirmed. The mountain bristled hackles.
A few of us ran out of the same
time a few of us ran into: collisions, versions
& revisions of the vanishing act.
Before, since, I never scrambled so from fear.
The only camouflage is to lick oneself
newborn, covered with hide in the first place.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem