In the thrall of tiredness
This hoeboy glowers out his ought ait
A blunted oik forking the topsoil
Jabbing tines scratching the crumb for plink
Sight penned to vacant gyres, slung
Between swells and sumps
Every fibre lying for the other; belying the need
To be free from kinesthesia
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem