Unkindled, a word waiting for no return:
An empty bottle, rolled beside a church that has no following:
Words that are flat like leftover snakes,
Bushes that landscape an empty graveyard;
And it snows in cutout paper over cowboys who arent
Really dying; and who have never traveled across
Texas:
But it is alright, because you are up in your car, venturing to
And from a university,
Long since broken free of my hapless plague- Like a detective
Without any addition glues, I roam mindlessly-
Like a butterfly assured of the freaks of joy:
The houses making monuments to their little wives.
And everything accumulating and taxing onwards, so promising
In the ventures they need to survive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem