The red pulse of three turn signals and the click of my own
—a serial music, more for the eye than the ear.
Images of unseen birds sweep the rear window of the car ahead,
like a school of neon tetras through an aquarium glass,
but swif' swift—each concise image pulled awry,
as the flock, itself, is warped, is bulged—is gone.
An hour ago: Gray whispery wisp of a man standing
a little less than the librarian on duty:
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem