Looking at the photograph is somehow not
unbearable: My friends, two dead, one low
on T-cells, his white T-shirt an X-ray
screen for the virus, which I imagine
as a single, swimming paisley, a sardine
with serrated fins and a neon spine.
I'm on a train, thinking about my friends
and watching two women talk in sign language.
I feel the energy and heft their talk
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem