Oo-la-la. A Heisenberg space,
your eyes trapped in your eyes.
You can make no physical gesture,
you can't even squirm at
the burning child, the decay of him,
selected by whom? because the infospace
for "squirm" turns it on.
Only feeling floats free in this hernia
of metaphor, there's no icon correlative.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem