It is the things just in-between, the un-
firm ones, that strike you like a seed-fluff shot.
Shape of wind in trees so are the things just
in-between, the shape of anything,
(he in the metro, his pregnant wife leans her back
against his stomach - he puts his
hand at her neck, lifts from her
hair a strand and then tastes it,
sniffs at it, love shines him
so in the eyes that he squeezes them shut. Ah!
softly he gyrates softly round the void)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem