Caked in
flour; her hands
and hair bagged
for questioning.
Twenty
tiny
colonies of
jam fall down her
apron like plinko
chips down
a polish coat rack.
Not tonight, though.
Tonight,
dressed in Morocco
and Grace;
hair, drawn like
a longbow, like
a half-forgotten dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
saved in sour sands & hour glassed for fresh tea sea wet mighty bolognas of ham not flounder a prawn-like plank ship town splashes cat caught a frightful tonic spritzed in rococò & lace here, dawn like a bowl song like a dragon-fought drum