look how the land here
warps reluctant to snap
back into the jovial rounded
figures of children's
drawings that constitute
some collective reality despite
a paucity of evidence
here the thick air aches
with the weighted alluvium
of memory clotted like souring
milk each figure
of speech derailing her
ties to the real some tenuous
thread of rotting velvet ribbon
and apathy stuns like concussion
as we sit before the postcard-blue
horizon watching time disintegrate
with a resounding click
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem