Emolliating in the soft green prejudices
That I cannot understand,
And everyday awash underneath the mountain
With even the swiftest of arrows embedded into
The deepest wounds
Already cut from the cultivated forest of
Fruit trees
Falling down- and little feral girls have bruised
Their elbows
And broken their favorite heirlooms and the lonely
Devices that flash all night
Trying to be saved by the fireworks who themselves
Are dying;
And it feels so far away, even as the trailer parks
Slumber,
And the beautiful angels are looking so good even
Though they are holding their breath,
And even though they are not real.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem