To crave the wounded barrier
in step with peddled knives
a force to grow through ponds of letters
and pry the lion who drips on sighs
Pluck knaves off bending tons
and shave the clap of mornings
Tie paper to the drenched electric
be still to drive the liquid thumb.
Force the maul of clocks within a planet
deal to face the call of trying booms
a drink to spell the wet with a carved appendix
through bone sits windows in a mill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem