You struck your palm illegally upon the fog-milked glass:
Brutish, instinctual, no real reason:
Your fingers spread upon the glass.
Flickering electrical lights shone sepia-hued within the dark sleeping wagon.
Your fingers spread, then still. I observe your foreignness
As your palm begins to glide.
Just a fraction of a gliding, though; as you
Civilly retreat your palm
Upon your lap
And then blink at me –
Lucidly,
Presently.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem