Translations 2
when i read translation, i poke around the words,
not at them, guessing at a reality not hinted at
but encoded by some prisoner from another world—
nobody's perfect; but i relish the quest for the
peculiar nature of some original writer, un-
known to us but through his function: images
thoughts perhaps of trees cows judgings ravings—
oh i'm an impotent feeling self-important fool—
consume the country, become one with it, i say to myself!
and becoming one with it belch and forget it!
no more nervous city twisting and coiling of coffee
and smokes, no more routines, schedules or lack of them!
what the fuck!— i'm internally shaken by these
desperate thoughts, my hand sticks in my throat,
