then clabber-dashed and bronzed in aspic....
fruit-lipped and on a spiny, frictive plank....
wings lap and toes hold....
all heathened-over with diatributes and manifold destinies....run.
...parallel
collide
on
a short walk to the sea....a fresh view of bare air......
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nope...not 'fricative'...nor 'fictive'......it plays as it lays.... '>)