(i)
A sailing white
pelican
carries
the world
on its wingspan.
I carry
the mountain
of the universe
on my
tongue's tip
with a mutter,
a nail
hammered
into space,
a wallowing sheet
rolling on
with me,
as I fish
and smoke out
arcs and arches
and spears
of trolls.
As I lean over
the pelican.
(ii)
How shall
I flap air under
feathers
of a burning sun,
the pelican
no longer scanning
a crater
to cut it off
from a fire
in the valley.
(iii)
How shall
I grab a flying
silver wind
chasing a falcon,
the pelican
having
slipped off
my narrowed page,
leaving me
to my clouds
rising
in a tornado
to stroke
nimbus ceilings,
the rising people
bubbling
in flames humming
out ashes
in a smolder,
no rainbow glow
when lightning
strikes
and flexes
its melting elastic
sword
to rip and burn
a moonlit page
losing span to flow.
(iv)
And I cling
to a pigeon's
soft,
smooth wings,
dodging
the pigeon's
talons
in a narrow alley
on my page
tossing me
over
to a pelican's
wingspan,
spraying light
on my page
flowing
with a crooning
river beneath
a pink
breeze of dusk.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem