Trod on unto the racetracks of death,
Having kissed her lips for a spell and then having to leave her
To disappear underneath the open wings of
Commercial airplanes:
Everything that has to be said, spoken so openly and wining until
It is sold:
The hitchhikers of fieldtrips molding between the grasses,
When I just want to sleep beneath her in between classes,
To smell the fumes she released like an engine in careless despair,
Or to realize how her senses languish there like a film of
Sunlight over the grasses
That the grasshoppers dip their antennae and heads into, worshipping
Her in the unutterably green classes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem