who says that poems are like these dogs
surrounded by their own echo at the village core
of the waiting and pawing at half moon
of the stubborn marking of language terrains -
he knows you not, you frantic barkers
cassandras in wallachia's sonic reverie
you bring what's called and what's calf
in a foolhardy bite from behind
together as if a leg were but a leaf
and the order of things a trade:
in one of my boots still the imprint
of your teeth, a gnarly four nips
that's your reward for a pursuant verse
the world follows poetry at heel
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem