Are upright -
cast not by sunlight but by frozen breath:
we breathe
and are enveloped in an outline
and when we pass,
this outline stays suspended, not tethered
to our ankles
as our sun-shadows are. A boy was here -
fantastically dressed
against the arctic frost like an heirloom glass
in bubble wrap -
he has disappeared into the portico
of himself. Not even Alice,
with her knack for finding weaknesses
in the shellac
of this world, left so deft a calling card.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem