Translation of an Unnamed American Poem

A high slope of the neck, it’s unforced. Sun glancing

the setting: a belt of a rooftop. In the West Ocean.

Regular sky, parties/cocktails disguise

a simple nobody evening without cameras.

.

Take it as the second-movement. This one

silence and a ceiling freely torn off.

We’re outside now, felt sawed in late afternoon

excursion beat songs. I’m only confused by

the meaty taste of real. Swarm last procession,

.

“Get lost.” A porch-light youth to speak or

enclose different fluting sigh. Rise about

overgrown day. It remains. In concrete

and metal stairwells until, by occasion,

.

this vicinity reception. The answer waits.

the opinion of will. These scenes start

to sweep eyes plain, one outskirt of how

far story can let us make our leave. To go

.

left, pass the milk crate seating on the street

of the coffee place. The news which lets

so much spill outside in each more certain

opinion of on the ends. Stopped around.

.

A position, an offer. Pause on the fixed glance

on the sun’s manner of appearing all equal, one,

but if an owner. You have girls available? Memory

quality a scent-note. Our duty purchases space

.

as a bird purchases its rock. Gone is being slowed

down, before purging any drawn day. Where

we are in between a gesture of acting.

.

Kindly, yes, yes. Let’s stick with the birds.

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Tags: American, birds, poem, poetry, translation