at the slew, slopes
of swamp cypress stalks
upthrust like sentinel
of time origin, of wild roses
moderne Bathsheba wouldn't know.
At the heart of the slew, the swamp
rests like a well-travelled
loin wrapped in spider web
half swallowed by a quick mud wave.
It rest like canthus meeting
wind blown cottonwood blades
As it mizzles summer silk snow.
The swamp rest as if it's tired of
concealing a batfowled virgin
She who doesn't know
Blithe of fisticuffs
she who washes off tears and blame
the ocean for another one.
She who carries a tote of
canned love and devotion.
She who prefers not to know
The meaning of one's divided shadow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem