Flowers not flowers... sky
that is silver in color,
not color nature, substance
maybe silver space behind
the flowers... looking
back in at me from beyond
whatever they are, or are not,
through jaggedly shaped shadows
cut out natural reliefs
around them. But the shadow shapes
there, I think are themselves
leaves around the flowers.
But then what I thought
were flowers are not
flowers. In fact really they
are all leaves... only leaves,
and there is no sky in it.
What's there in silver is
an almost pure white mercury vapor
out-spreading of light that lights
on the special spots and places
among and between the broken piecesÂ
of dark, I know now to be those others
those leaves shadowed from that blue
and silver light by the out in front
more bright more white ones... all
making a magic garden out of the several
branches in a single tree seen through
a tiny peep hole basement window,
the only window across from my bed. Wait...
in front of everything now straight lines,
suspended... man's hand made phone wires,
pay per views, Â cable news, internet... power...
electricity before the wildly free vision
of one of God's great fingerprints
I actually see
for the first time now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem