No one can find me,
including airport krishnas
& fly-by-night devil worshippers.
But I'm in the brush
by the river of dirty shoes,
abandoned & worn out now.
Where doomed black birds
die mid-flight
singing the strangest songs...
as if failing para-gliders,
their eaves of transcendance
melting sticky Icarus.
On an ill-fated summer vacation,
we are warming ourselves
falling into deep love,
a befuddled crevice
in an abandoned quarry
where the infamous casts stones.
Decrepit ghost selves,
I'm going through that imaginary
bonfire compounded
in northern California paradise
where books burned brightly
for the shivering-poor
Donner family of cannibals.
I'm going to meet you, dead ones,
making dolls out of clothes pins...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Marina, I like this.