Gravity, wrote Trisha Brown,
left on Baryshnikov no fingerprints.
You’d think he never would come down,
and though he’s not now dancing since
he’s caught up with the law of Newton
he still float high above home base
to which he’s never stopped commutin’,
in ascent to outer space
in the capsules of our mem-
ories of his dancing, autopilot
who gravity could not condemn,
because he knew how to beguile it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem