ZEN GALLS
My pony would stand and let me
Crumble the night-eyes on his fore-legs -
Extraordinary muskiness -
Raised, dry, broken and calloused
Like a dead wart or the crust on a roast
Or a shank truffle.
And my dog would be snaffled by the smell
Of the pieces that broke away
And the three of us would share
A weird sacrament.
It seems that time is an illusion
And that its only purpose is so that
Everything doesn't happen at once.
That old chestnut!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem