The old stilts creak,
creak and clank
in the water's plump lap,
lipped oysters cling to chafe-legged piers.
The new mirages
of glass apartments,
slouch angular, metallic
and insouciant as supermodels,
upswept on a hill's shoulder
pinned between sky and sea,
the girdled capillaries of lungs,
and the colander of bridgework.
This was a place where criminals
beat the sons of criminals
with socks filled with wet sand.
They still taste it sometimes
gritty and ferric
in seafood lunches.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem