(To Patrick)
the little boy
in dirty shorts was
trying
to catch a
puff ball along
harris st
& as he snatched
it caught
a gust of air
from a car.
it rose & floated
a delicate
satellite of
innocence just out
of reach
where it stayed
until finally there
was only a
traced spot of
white.
the boy gripped
his arm in parody
of pain
& walked away
unaware that a
puffball
had settled
on his shoulder
in the
instant he was
standing quite still.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem