And the thing you know crawls
back inside the counting minds
of slumbering mastodons,
towing the desire of the red pageant
and devouring the cape of planets;
Throwing against the sighing of the knives,
Slowly opening tombs of the bison,
drenching the flight with a sacred virus
seeing the sawing off of strides...
and her traps make the weasel peak
to kiss the weakened, ancient seat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem