so much sleep in only one tree,
so many gray globes
of fur in all the branches, a bohemia
of sluggishness which itself in the treetops holds and holds
and holds with a couple of crampons
as claws. nor was it ever credited, first to take
the journey above the whistling fans
of rainforest canopy, ruffled stoics,
shoddy buddhas, tougher than the poison
in the leaves, with their cotton-wool-
ears against enticements, immune
in some cranny of the world: no waterloo
for them, no walk to canossa.
take note of them, memorize them
while there is time - this face in repose,
this expression of a cyclist
very close to stage win, dis-
connected from the ground, but within our reach
in jaded gray, before each of them yawns, stretches,
drops off into a dream of eucalyptus.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem