Snow tracks filled with nightfall, strange
how ice so quickly erodes
leather soles, flying foxes, imported oranges
Part of the frozen river; against the hull meaning
dips: Bukowski turns
to Oedipus
via Prokofiev & pens footnotes
to his father's reckless semen
writes how he wishes his I
had never been born, his trick that he'd
been stuck with
Three black oranges
cradled in park snow, flaccid as liver
croak with the muscularity of
an oboe when
I crush them with a stick
Spilling out of my pockets
envelopes distributed like dull frosted pea-
nuts - In the parking lot
I pass a bevy of disembowelled post boxes
drinking turps &
begging me
for the hiss of a letter
there only remains to say since writing
has become impossible:
hooked fish think of water
only as well as they can
your invisible calm
balances fruitfully a circle of dampening stones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem