Lavender and contorted
Only and lavender
Outrageous and very
This flipper may back and
beckon, but it
is absurdly hidden
Into a streamed fly a short man
has seemed contorted
Formless as a
hay, more formless than shield
The rain saying our
face, its own calling skin
Appeal has rotted in our curved
bank
Gloom is so homeward-bound
it has mourned it
Hearing an earthy gross year from under
old decent water
Our hand thickening, motionless
and farcical, our arm rotting
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is not a poem by Basil Bunting