Imperfect as the stamen tricked by the bee
To pollinate the high boots of insouciant epiphany:
I look for you through the woebegone crowds
Of the market place,
And at the dog track; and when I certainly become lost,
I sweat out beneath the ceiling fans my mother became
Used to,
But waited, knowing that you would come and I would
Fill my eyes all over you:
Brown, like a dunned river who divides the states with
The riches of her symmetrical tributaries;
The nuptials of your vineyard fill my mouth as I kneel,
And airplanes fly low over head across their common
Ways and avenues,
As we lay down in bed, like a canoe who slips away
Into the deltas hoping to become unrequitedly anonymous
Into the seas forgotten in you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem