Down in a hutch where damp stars pool,
Like heliotrope dragonflies who tried to cross
The cut-up ocean,
Drinking the sharp milks of lactating rattle-snakes,
I don’t know why I sing,
Like a dog excited to get out into the back yard
Where its wild cousins are taking down a foal;
And I upstairs, tiptoeing to sneak tomato sandwiches,
Fresh looks at foreign exchange students open
Bloused with the tongues of their uncanny glades,
Everyone has entered their own loneliness of
Beliefs: She was so young when she started acting and
Fell from the sky, and I am unsure if I am succeeding at
This, but there are only a few sips left and the coffin
Will be dry, allowing every kind of us to float up
To the roof of the house again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ah, the poor foal...but what must the wolves eat when the deer have been chased away and horses take up space under the pine trees?