So the two stand almost motionless in the meadow
the girl who hangs straight down on a rope from heaven
puts her long hand on the long straight line of the goat
that bears the earth on its tiny feet inversely
Against her white-and-black checked smock
the girl — in the whimsy of
my solitude I call het Ursula
holds a poppy high
There are no words as graceful
as the rings in the zebu horns
as tanned by time as a zebu hide
shock inside of you their value bare
Such words I'd like to garner to a sheaf
for the girl with the goat
Across the edges of my hands
my hands
feel for my hands
incessantly
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem