through the the windows of the sky-train
they passively observe
us parachuting down
dramatically absurd
flower-heads our canopies
tangling with the words
of songs we've half-remembered
and just before departure
in the mists of smoke and steam
we'll fabricate some meaning
before the whistle screams
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I enjoyed this poem, Brian. Thanks