My vision enters a darkness of surgical light
where the dying lie waiting all around
for a sign, a token of passage
on the narrow barges of hospital beds
for cleansing ceremonies, mnemosyne chants
on an outgoing tide
eyes focused on the slow passing
of this visitor, this live stranger
with unanswerable questions of intimacy
who, at last, breathless, gets to you too late
his only sacrament left this curious vision
of your figure on an unceremonious slab
of a forest floor in mushroom-soft light
where foxfire and darkness compete
while surgically ritualistic insects frantically pour
through an emptying body’s brief rich store
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem