Twenty grey pigeons, swallowing raw rice, half-staring at me?
Twelve long-necked swans, basking in the sun, ignoring me?
Eight barn owls eyeing me from a forested corner?
Six foxes and six brown squirrels quizzing me?
Five pink beluga whales half-smiling at me
from youtube videos while being chased by a Great White?
Two falcons casting their shadows over me?
Am I a half-whimpering, half-leaping bird caged somewhere
where an assembly of blackbirds has turned shrewd and colorless
in the form of a published poem
and speaks to Wallace Stevens and his intended readers
just one year before his death?
Or is this black-and-white poem muttering to itself
because its rhythm needs to find an owner?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem