(i)
At a peaked pitch
night, a man barks
quietly at himself
to stir his mettle
into a steel shell,
as a gliding wind
whines back
at his hollow chest
freezing him
into a piece
of cracked icy
crust still splitting
apart into broken
crystals of glass,
as he's mangled
into pieces
and burnt into ash
still warm enough
to armor him
against other rattles
and croaks,
as crickets' chirps
cut and axe his
ears into a heavy
slab of numbness.
(ii)
Night in its peaked
horny dark blue attire
stirs the bowels
of a deep dark
volcano yet to erupt
with a sigh and a fizz,
a dark balloon
exploding into a deeper
jade and soot
rolling, thickening
wool and dyed
swinging denim,
obsidian wings flapped
in puffs and winds.
(ii)
How does he fire
back at those
gashing drilling
whistles
and punching,
riddling
flutes of insects
thickening voices
of grasshoppers
and stretchy reptiles?
How does
he break off
a far-flung thunder
roaring
into a nebula
coughing out dark
smoke
from a charcoal
dying air?
(iii)
Growl and groan
back at night
to pierce night's
dark brittle flesh
with the whizzing
spear of a puffy breeze,
but the beast
of night
with stone and bone
in its mettle
stays on to face
a strike or muzzle,
darkness smelling
a pressed trigger.
Howl and mewl
in the dark
and the beast hears
only a wind hushing
silence, as it whines
through leaves
and rustling dry stems.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem