She reaches toward her internal mechanisms and nods,
little arenas of her voice summoned to speak.
She's shy, I know it.
He becomes alive with her words. I know it better
than he does, and I envy him for it.
I gave guidance to a dead crow years ago, and watched as it
proceeded to bury itself.
It's all just conjecture.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem