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.
Tags: American, birds, poem, poetry, translation
October 2, 2008 at 5:28 pm
Here is an earlier draft for those of you into “process” and all that: https://sflovestory.wordpress.com/2008/06/03/translation-of-an-unnamed-american-poem/