If piles of discarded names and numbers on bar napkins,
jackknife through them and through the dream of hosts,
If crawling under water on a path through the face of music,
drill through the wall and emerge cleansed in oxygen
with punctuations clinging like peeling decals
on a dripping torso kneeling on a white pedestal.
If an arboretum more elegant than living quarters,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem