The champions sang their songs whilst I was sleep
Or, rather,
They laid down and made love in the carport underneath
The ceiling fan and the other bothers
Of paper airplanes and tangerine spores:
And whatever art there was about me forgot itself and
Settled down to watch racecars
Going around one specific scar of the earth like hula-hoops—
As the cowboys looked brazenly under the skirts of
A barbwire waitress who had come down from
The gaslight only the night before—
Metamorphosed from a stewardess while the planes
Leapt into a blue and weeping sky—
And the children tucked themselves in for Christmas
While their fathers, all pilots,
Were forever so far away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem