I'm wearing a little thin
dress and the space
between buildings and sky honeys.
The road narrows - this,
the treacle time of day
when dogs spill their tongues
under fading hydrangeas
and there's a meltdown of population. How crisp
the lines of buildings, tethering
zebra crossings to broken phone booths,
the hilled horizon
to the highway shuddering by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem