Tugging at the silver
Orbs of Scottish
Plumbers,
Fixing the pipes underneath
Her copper
Estuaries,
Caracoled like daydreams
She little perceives,
And I am going
Down into
New hemispheres
Places that don’t wake up,
And can’t be
Fixed
And the beautiful fish
Never feel
The tug of airless need.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem