(i)
Shades of night crowd
my room with feathery fingers
and large-rayed palms of light
from the mountains
and valleys of the day,
when I was ploughed
like a pebbled field in the desert
and lifted high by a laugh
that split out of a cocoon.
I was also sunk by a hammer
from a mouth that nailed
a soft banter
into my bleeding flesh of mood
with the stone-hard fist
of a slur that caught me,
scrapping off
an uppercut's sharp blade.
(ii)
The day was dark, all soot
from the fire
under bubbling mouths
hurling off a steam of arrows
to pierce my beak-proof
vest of mood, as hawks and eagles
pecked only at hard steel,
wing-flapping and flying off
into the woods.
While I walked
back home in the rays
of the path I'd mulched
with a spade that scooped out
mounds harboring
mice and moles eating
into a sunny temper
before I sprinkled loam
and dark soil
for a green harvest
from a flame-yellow day
that didn't roast me,
but left me in the embers
and ashes of burning fights.
(iii)
Dusk flows with sun.
Dusk roars with the winds
into early evening,
a full-cloaked night taking over,
as I look
into my ceiling
to find a lamp melting
out of its bright powder
into a frost hue
wearing a cloak of flint.
But my dim room
switches on a half-dead bulb
floating like a magnolia cusp,
a moon in my ceiling
I'd missed throughout my ride
in the jungle of daylight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem