Poppy only spoke at the courthouse,
Whittling imagination leftovers, fading
Blood full of red Cherokee
His brow carved tight in apathy and drink
Then he shuffled on home
Grunt meant eggs or something
Fritters fried or boiled or rolled
He couldn't walk to the stove,
Nor talk or be, no, not at home
He was poor soil and sloped nothing there
I had a dream once-he lifted me up high
tossed me into the sky blue clouds
Then I plunked down in a yellow meadow
Blue soldiers lying around me crowing
Their hearts pierced with Poppy's empty arrows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem