We unravel saints as they sigh
the bones of architecture canceled at the marrow
the prism seeps the shadow
Why? The bronze agent cries
he who flung the figure speaks to the gelatin Christ
with his lights on and bombs in the east.
Some sleep with the feather
or sword to slay knaves in the gulf
the tick of your cross-hair disassembles the manatee
to pause the craving of it's mass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem