I look down: fish on a plate stunned
by flame and butter, stuck in spicy dust.
A mysterious cricket-language goes on,
glad and satisfactory. But what if I cannot
harness my sadness? The table is gorgeous:
wide gold candles, bits of nature casually
sticking up here and there from glass columns.
Outside in the turn-around, a sweet sculpture
of two pale lambs with hornets nesting
in the stone. I often wake covered with a fine grit
that moves when I move. My coat is a joiner
of other coats, soaking in scents of mint
and suede and Joy. Something seems
punched through. What were you saying?
My mouth is a burlap sack. But here comes
dessert. It’s not just on fire, it is fire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem