Shirts hung out
in the sun’s expected light are now
wafting angelically in unexpected mist.
Sleeve reaches out
to sleeve, but the wind somehow
snaps gestures at elbow or wrist.
They swirl about
seeking to embrace in a slow
incorporeal dance of twirl and twist:
I have the strange sensation they move in air
seeking a body’s shape that once was there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem