It’s too dark to see the duck outside.
November, sure, a month of frozen cysts
And austere landscapes littered with
Firefly Carcasses, Trees bending sharply
To reach for their plighted children, weeping
Violently, exhaling violently, sighing violently.
I enjoying telling them sadistically-
“Thanks for the oxygen”
It’s so cold,
I’m sorry I’ve sidetracked.
There is always one duck
Sitting calmly in my yard, surrounded
By bird feces and cricket semen,
Watching the moon devour the Earth
In a sort of zen-like state. The death of
A planet, the death of light, is regular to him, a keeper
Of existence (he deals with these things often)
Mother told me madly- “WHY DO YOU THINK
IT’S DOESN’T ECHO! IT IS TAKEN AWAY
EATEN! EATEN! ” I wish she hadn’t died so suddenly
She could’ve told me what she didn’t mean.
It’s so cold,
I’m sorry I’ve sidetracked.
He waits for the moon’s
Opal breath to swat at
The fountain urinating water,
Creating an anti-rainbow, which opens
At three AM sharp,
he yells…he goes HANK!
-And suddenly it starts snowing,
Snowing large, oyster like crystals
Like mad, (albeit for only a moment or two)
That rest precariously on everything but
His frayed feathers.
Suddenly it is winter now.
The aroma of pine eradicates
Any traces of love, activity, sex.
And the duck flies away, finally.
North. North for the winter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem