Her hair wakes up in the second grade and
Burns golden.
Until all of the story books are closed and it is time
For napping
And the trials of the thieves and bed wettings:
It is at this time that the overeager buses look in through
The monopolies of windows,
Spying on their beautiful charges: how like the pilgrims;
Some boys nuzzle up to girls,
Breathing heavy over their shoulders,
Like anchors of party favors trying to drag down wishes,
Like cats looking into the gilded cages of
Inviolate song birds; yes, realizing what it is they
Truly want.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem