Cellophane wings that
thrummed the pane
drained of vim
still on the windowsill
your bronze engines
overturned
like a junkyard car
legs paired hairily,
scarily
clutch the air
eyes, brooches of compound red,
stare and stare
signs that all
correctly read
say 'sorry babe,
you're dead'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem