I’ve been out on the reservation but known nothing of
Its sorrows:
Across the muddy streets trying to move further
Away from my father’s horses:
Into a corrugated teepee
Where I can believe that the airplanes are still angels
Or bottle rockets he cannot sell:
This beautiful world alone with the coyote
Who scents amidst the bricks- where sometimes
A flower will grow, just the beautiful armpit of
A weed the wild dogs love
And the Mexican girls lay across saying that they
Are broken and yet float down the reservoirs
Into the carnival of my soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem