Insomniac of banshees, or like a
Child addicted to the backyard's séances,
While someone sleeps up a hill that
Has evaporated;
Like after the dog is done doing good tricks
It becomes emolliated
And no longer eligible to attend a good
College—
And the housewives whose hands are always
Filled finds it a hard time to buy trinkets
Halfway up the taoist's temple,
Looking as forlorn as a hummingbird without
Any midgets—
As I remember you, back pressed against
My great-uncle's raspberries—
All a flummox in your cultivations, and not
A space for you left in the junior parking-lot,
And not a star left for you in all of the heavens:
Then didn't you become the brightness of
An amnesiac,
While there was a typhoon in your carport,
And a lovely song skipping through the echoes of
Your cellular phone,
As the foxes were jumping for Eucharist,
Like the plagiarists leaping for Shakespeare at
Picking time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem