(i)
Bloating rivers carry
flat and bumpy
waves of quahogs and suns
shredded into light
cotton specks
and tails of white flying birds
trailing cream sponges and woven
balls of snow built
and interwoven with sheets
on spiraling spindles.
To spin life stretched out
in a bow's mouth
yet to cough out a slithering arrow
in light years
unfolded from pole to pole.
Light races
on a thin fiber of lace
braided into a hand flipped back
to shoot a lightning-lipped ace
on the same track
as splitting clouds
narrowing swords
of drizzles and rain
land with a hummingbird's peck.
(ii)
My nose runs
twenty meters down
past my feet.
Thirty meters across
to the deluge sneezed out
with torn smudges
to cling to philtrum
pushing out tributaries
into a sitting estuary
laid out in the cloudy sky
of a flying handkerchief.
(iii)
Stretching out
mountainous ridges of toes
through gardens
growing gray petals of phlegm
and the silver beads
of a growling river running
beyond palisades
planted to ward off
thawed moons
of napkins and handkerchiefs,
as stars fly in
with wings of the coronavirus,
a fledgling still
in its nest in the gentle wind
stroking nose,
the only blocked chimney
spitting back to the house
blotches of thick flies
of smoke
buzzing by a lantern
wearing a king's hat of smoke.
(iv)
Here, the nimbus
blown off
by a staggered breath crosses
bridges to land
on the fire and flames
of an exploded low cough
jumping out
of a crater of smear and grime
no drizzles can dapple off.
But stacks of towels
pile up,
as a nurse from Venus
fires off a Sirius grin,
letting a bawling thunder
cackle off
the tail of a virus
flapping the helices of the long-range
albatross spread out
with the wingspan of a crucifix.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem