Bloodeyes among the trees.
Waterwood broken,
an open split
of small life.
Steps out of tact,
tied. Tubular
breath that makes
leaves vellum.
And when the two
bend and coo
with a mouth full
of pigeons, you
pace and green
in the dark,
strange with envy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem