BROKERAGE
An old man, half- seeing,
half-hearing:
my hand moves, catches the edge of something,
glass perhaps, or a keepsake
-- the treasure tumbles, shatters--
then my crude curse, the picking-up of shards,
and a helpless rage, staring ahead into dimming years,
a time of things falling,
stiff fingers touching, unable to hold to the present!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem