that is the name of this town of goodbyes
whose tilted totems can only be seen from behind
when you catch them in the mirror as your car gears on
down the same bad road toward the usual horizon;
Darkness-that is the name of the room at town's end
A farrow of shadow, a contract of angles lit by a gleam
High-piled in silence, sunken in prairie where nothing's in season
A spare name for a good room which is available
Between there and here towers that might plausibly stand
Spotlights lighting secrets small as your mouth
Jokes, untranslatable, that choke the middle air
Exultation answered by thunder and prayer-
A town-this town. You get used to it. A room
Your room. Not dear. Now we are going there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'harmony and progeny and prossa-parity' RAB