seen through like a map
of the underground,
a perfect web of red and blue;
we are easily observed
heads filled with empty plains
or bellies stocked with pig lust;
so let me, at least, serve you,
as a bottle of milk warming on
a doorstep as pigeons wake
or as a bomb-site mirror,
forgotten and brick eyed with dust,
breezed by a newspaper in flight;
unnoticed, I fail to reflect the truth,
a stranger passing through a glass door,
myself alone, a face of age
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem