Cooking pot consecrated to the stars
the glasses which we raise then,
we empty. And neither the first no.
Nor the last no.
Any one of us so happy
to live this miracle, this moment.
We happy the full length of the
evening, feeling so pretty good
and not about to go to sleep no.
Not exactly God's own racket!
And it is already morning, nearly,
shadow loose among the trees.
Almost morning on Mt. Washington.
What's about to happen now?
L.A. where are you? Where Invisible City?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem