The city pulsates with the need to blow its excuses;
A spider worships vermilion from deep in the contours of
Its web: the whole world is vermilion and the cars
Are just the dreams that cannot be caught:
Nor would it have a desire to; but it sees the housewives as pink
Clouds that come out onto the yards sometimes and remove
More of their thoughts,
While the silver cars are away: then the spider stops its
Eviscerations for such awhile, and it almost has thoughts of drying
Clay:
There the housewives sit out strumming like stringed instruments
Across the green planes
Until the airplanes leap and seed the rains; and the spider
Holds its little spider breath and almost perceives of what it can never
Say,
While these unobtainable delights slip through its yards of sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
..the spider holds its little spider breath... love it!