Forklifts of golden brown sunken into
The pornographies where the egrets high step
With eagle eyes, searching
For the foundling’s gold, as the forest
Fires hesitate, tongue tied to find you in his
Bed- an amber zoetrope your two bodies
Shoving off, spilling like graffiti into
An amphitheatre the night the were wolf
Howled, and your children came out
Golden skinned echoing from the places that
Still bare your names.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem