Day is day
sixty three of a shortage of rain,
lucky things to say on the radio,
the last poem of an epidemic.
beaked lovers spit from the breast
hackey sack angel hipped
dinosaur gods and carpenters
chained to trees with writers block.
bed umbrella breakfast
spat image
subjects less grandfather,
more of a brother eyed chucking
chills gravity
to upgrade his shoes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem