untitled Poem by Samuel Wagan Watson
untitled
the late shift erupts;
Greek boys in turbo-fitted 4s
open the back streets
of bitumen lines built for mice
a gear-crunching
nightscape howl
simultaneously
embraced and ejected
into the dire congestion of the city's spectral pitch
like the fading trumpet oratorio
of an emphysema-riddled jazz musician
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/23/2024 5:15:29 AM # 1.0.0.1119
