The poet finds himself devoid
Of the telegraphic gene,
Constitutionally unable to manipulate arcane figures
For some distant purpose...
Accordingly he comes to accept
The shovel or pipewrench or drill
Placed in his hand,
Comes to value a life
Among squirrels bluejays & clouds
Turning in Spring skies
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem