potter around: then you become things. Their prey.
Take care or your eye
as you potter will pop.
The light of your eye: a lantern. Outside.
Good for the night. And passenger traffic.
Your duodenum — looping back, looping forth!
Controlled by nerves? The nerve authority?
Nerves, nerves!
Are left to themselves!
In the slight beeze a rustling like leaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem