that red stick....
drifted to a continent's edge...
pledged to ply a vertical
climb and grind
with bells on and off
time
keeper
of
each
equinox....
finding fallen apples
in roadside weeds...
no fence
ever built
could hold
that
craving heart....
I hear every octave....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem