There's a sledge hammer going steadily
in the upper left corner of the roof.
A roar of steam from the cappuccino jet.
A rotary machine drying itself
or the air or something else helpless and silent.
Someone knocking espresso bricks out of their mould
against the side of a bin, metal on metal.
Dean Martin crooning his love
to a thousand violins.
The garbage van compacting the street's refuse
in four dimensions of decibels.
Teaspoons clattering onto saucers
A fly coughing and coughing on my arm.
Across the road the sea in its own silent movie
throwing up waves, catching them in its blue arms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem