It is September, and I lunch in rain.
I do not like your city. I do not
Welcome the filling sky as I once could.
I notice nothing, however fatal,
In the foreground. I discard those ballads
Devoted to empire and disaster.
I belong among the hanged, whose ladders
Have drawn back at last, who slow the wind.
I belong among sources of etchings
And illumination. I too belong
Among what follows, is again ample,
Unruly, the suffering that becomes
Easier to record when it belongs
To another. I wander for restraint
And clarity. I have learned little yet,
And remember less. I miss my red cat
Centering himself on my books to sleep.
I miss the world calculated and small.
I want nothing of boulevards, fast food,
And I am finished with the toll of the free
And dispensable. I miss my music,
My twilight and unlocking, and the past,
Where she will repeat "I am still singing.
The sky is ours. Wreck yourself here and stay."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem