I have no conscience because I
always chew my pencil. Can we say
with black lines on it
is like a human body? This question
not to be decided by pointing
at a tree nor yet by a description
of simple pleasures.
Smell of retrieval. Led to expect the wrong
answer. An arsenal without purpose
but why yes please.
There is no touching the black box.
The tree not pointed at lives
in your bringing up the subject
and leaves space for need, falling.
The white ground. The waning heat.
to say the history of the world.
Or that grammar
milks essence into propositions
of human kindness.
The difficulty here's not true or false
but that the picture's in the foreground
and its sense back where the gestures link
so closely to the bone
The application is not easy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem