Ohio folds itself like a green pleat
beneath my stride. The air is webbed with blue
and bluebottles that sail in birring fleets
from dead to atrophying dead. Tattoos
of chlorophyll and dirt disguise my shoes
in glyphs intended for another eye.
Three bobwhites spring out chuckling toward the sky
carrying the message from the mud.
I stop within the cycloning of flies
and wonder if they codify in blood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem