You get masked by the lines sometimes
like bluish dye, in the shape of
a wolf’s rib, shot through frost
or that other tigress, fire, though
you leave a licking trace
in the foaming measures of afterglow.
And yet at the center of this
where soliloquies intersect
and thread on, the igniting
moment, the unmasked abode, where
we’re finally dead and being born.
This is what weds us
long after returning to the basics
of color, to fashioning newer
flutes for the longest descent,
and to the philosophic season
with its hammered truths, trans-
parent deaths, and beauty’s
shoulders of corduroy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem