i carve you out
of already alive
and lavish landscapes; build silent,
lived horizons about you, still do.
i paint the offing of you,
still raise with care
some infant dreams.
write lines, fill books
foaming toward a ceiling;
no wheres and not heres,
form rock crop parts
of this place, hold all and none
as room for this
static sketch of breath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem