Curved and simple
as milkbone,
used as a hidden grail,
a pale listener.
When the morning rain calls
we carry buckets into the yard.
Warm lipped from mugs,
knights of clink and
clack, we triumph
over cobbles, flood past the latch.
We know grey and the
weight in one arm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem