lend me your comb....
I straddle a balalaika, petulant former cellist that I am....
as the autoharpies give chase.....
waxing paper-shipped,
etuis crammed with
skinned flints and posthumorous chantings.....
to end on a note lacking grace......with
only a paradiddles framing yon cenotaph?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem