Windmills disposed to know they are necking,
Like flowers breaking themselves,
Looking up with glorious beauty but no wonder
In a hillside of towns which is desirously
Helpless;
And you are there, plutonic, with eyes like the minerals
Of blue jays,
Your children with popguns and candies too beautiful
To eat:
The traffic swims and your lips move, and I try to
Match them
In the hemisphere of smoking cannons,
Heavily breathing; I have never touched
You unwontedly, but I should like too:
Upon the swings that always move predestinedly;
The song I put off to you, like a lucky curse silly kissing
In the palmettos;
Like the still life or pieta of an unsunken grotto,
All the proof I need in the absolute absence of shadows in
This courtyard;
And I am underneath you, like a cat purring while the
Stones are basking like fattened lizards in your body’s song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem