Strip veins and bury
Bulbs and hatchets.
What of winter?
Think of May
And Mary and water
That washes the sweat
Rolling between
Your eyes, and down
Your nose, across
Your belly.
Look deep into the
Eyes of March;
So deep that it
Allienates another's life.
Pedal to pagan shores
Of worship.
Wear dark glasses.
Watch Mary cup the wines
Of winter, squeeze
The harvests of summer.
Acknowledge the vericose veins
That clutch the last leaf
On the last tree
In Sarnia.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem