Pretty and busy in the daylight of
Cheap hotels:
Purple flies with bruised eyes around stolen bicycles
And my parents are selling
Christmas trees
Against the stolen bodies of airplanes:
Always escaping and escaping
And getting busied in their math of heavens:
While another day of puppeteers transcends
Like simulacrum
Once and once again in the arrow heads of their
Unhurried art: the apples are still growing on
Their trees, anyways,
And still far away from the purpled and virginal
Hearts in the amusements of anyone
That I happen to care anything about.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem