The beautiful sounds
we make
to speak each name, for this
or that thing in
or about which,
we think
with special twists of
the face to say something
like 'ice cream' or 'batteries' or
the bus route number home,
or the name of a TV show
we like, or of that sky man
God, my mother believed
to be watching everywhere
forever free,
while she was alive,
or the name I call you
when it's just you and me,
I'm laughing now. Though you
can't hear or see,
but I'll say through
the sounds of the street...
spinning tires hissing off
to somewhere, where I can't see,
or how my right leg
crossed over. You
know how I do below
this page on my clip board
on my lap on the porch
and all the earth below all this.
I say literally nothing
though still
I speak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem