Would rather be lying there? No.
Though my pillow is a backwards-wound watch.
Cream linen of another country
where I lay in troth with you, hands pressed
to the wall, those pages . . .
Tonight, opium protocols of a full moon
blanch alluvial oak leaves.
Rather lie sheeted in frost there & pray
for the forgiveness of you,
absent friend? Yes. Yes. Words
failed me. O to swallow them
back. Rackety wind muslins the beeches,
illusion of a calendar in storm.
Autumn to winter. Turn again. Don't end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem