Being the wasp again, which every morning Poem by Brigitte Oleschinski
Being the wasp again, which every morning
tumbles through a strange room, whirring high
above the building site honeycombs, the lorry road beds fanned out
deep in the concrete, the items of underwear strewn over
the floor, bungee is what that was
on a silk thread, bun-
gee -
Translated by Catherine Hales
Monday, April 10, 2017
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5/7/2024 1:46:28 PM # 1.0.0.1119
