Each raindropp dancing along in the cowbell games of
Their brotherhood,
Patting the head of my trailer and engorging the skirts of
Her canal:
People live under this cool sheen: people everywhere,
People in cars, and people in buildings,
Folding over and to sleep in airplanes- related or unrelated by
Thought or inclinations,
Forever and everywhere like the living echoes of their graves;
And I think how rains should relate to people in the
World that we share,
And I think of Sharon, or a muse somewhere; lighting up the
Mountain, all eager to get somewhere,
Wolves curling like kittens, her warm underwear; and how we
Shared the atmosphere of schools together,
Each Monday a warm renewal- the presence of her body a breathless
Art gallery- the rains would come then and make her faster,
While I slept under the bleachers and listened to her laughter;
As I still sleep under the mobiles of all of my tomorrows,
Because both school and Sharon have gone away;
And the rains on Sundays and Mondays always bring back home
The sounds to my sorrows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem