magic or wood or lost in light
inside of heaven, silver-struck
to press against dry lips
hands sanded with night air
O Aramaic song! a copse perfect with faces;
but for all this the common is round.
a plastic cup on a dirty table in a roadstop
thrown next to a route, sick with neon.
so say this; read this;
the banality of a miracle is always hidden.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem