Drunk mothers
Get down on
Their knees
In the middle of
A dead-end
Park-
Admire the butterflies
In the last leg of the
Race
Having naptime with
The rabbit carcasses-
Empty shot-gun
Shells
Are indescribable
Like knucklebones
Across
Tne neighborhood
Of a
Vanished
Carnival-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem