It was Hemingway
early
And Dickinson
late
Those early
exposures
The trail of
my wake
No bar left
unvisited
Or brawl left
unfought
No school that could
answer
Dialectic
corrupt
Now this corner
I sit in
Both welcomes
and warms
And the thoughts
it retriggers
No movement
just form
I once had
looked over
What I now look
within
From this chair
that I captain
Where in virtue
—I sin
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March,2015)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem