in all honesty i possess eleven fingers, outside of honesty too. it's a clumpcloddy finger, the eleventh, with clodhopper knuckles, it's what the word churl would look like if it came to earth or scudded beneath it in finger form. elves dangle and twirl from the gnarly joints on the sabbath. such a muchness, but truly, when a wind kicks up you can hear the hinges creaking.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem