Wake up man
sunrise whitens your chapel walls and falls
on the snapbeans in the prison garden:
beans in neat rows
purple to pale
yellow to petal
pink to blue
sonorities.
Don't cry, you
are not the first to ever swing.
Besides, breakfast is here-last bites.
It's what you wanted
on such a lovely
day for a hanging morning:
wings. grits and
groats;
sausages hung up in smoke
like bad jokes;
hake chilled
with artichokes;
Figs under sprigs
of fresh mallows;
It's a crime,
man,
you still feel the burn from.
Bad dog dog, It was you-
it was that moth you threw
into the neb-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem