Frigid land looks up my
pant leg, feet sinking into the
pavement beneath me and it
quaked with opposition
below your pistons,
a bicycle
lurking ahead of me.
The preposterous sight of
a train flattening one
penny stained and cleansed
with algae, excusing its manners
in my pocket (and later an
unsuspecting dresser, limping
towards the corner of my
room) .
The Canal at half-mast, eyeballing
the stone washed rocks scaling
the bridge as dusk rolled in,
unshaved and still.
My father in front of me executing
the very air with his eyes,
never staring back to see how far behind
I had become.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem