Sturdiness in the grove of fingers
Where the fruit that no one should touch is
Perched-
Wayward sand dollar underneath the sun
A petrified fruit of the sea,
As you make your way back aimlessly
To the whistling trailer parks
Lost with the bicycles behind the dunes,
Going back to your father
As he calls you home by saying his amen’s.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem