approaching the booth...his sacrosanct cubicle........
shuffling the deck
with
a lowered hand, the driver
sends
three face cards... and Molly
into the trunk...
the latch is broken...no time to wire it shut...
.....duct tape...
where is it....
there.....
under the squashed persimmon...
..........cut the label from that oilcan....
sing, sway,
with those accipitrine circles in the sky....
almost there....
luck be a ladyfinger......an almond thin...a grosbeak in a dirndl......
..........why not....
why not............
.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem