He stopped part way across the field to
sit down and rest. An eagle
descended from the sky and an angel with the face of death
Before I had a name
I came out of a place where there wasn't a door
holding my breath
in slippery hands. Door to wall
and back again. The things these were
The modified currents of air
at which the dancers are taught to stare
whenever they turn
to go but instead fall over
at the idea of taking an ordinary walk
for example to the Post Office
or a restaurant. And all the original atoms
of water and skin
we think we can find there
if we try. This is not Alaska
and the sun-dial
is not the sun secretly dying
during the night
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem