The morning air was angry
so I closed my front window
to block the '37th homicide'
seeping under the wooden sill
with a sharp biting scent.
Four shots in my foggy
dream bloated brain
had preceded the cool bloody
face of a twenty year man/child
who suffered only from
place dysfunction.
His young wife now married
to the impermanence of
happiness. Suffocating,
I wedged open the rear
window allowing entry of
the neighboring baby's voice
chirping on the morning breeze,
melancholy falling like dew.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem