I’m like a child.
I watch everything as it goes and
as I please, and I translate. I translate
and translate until there’s nothing left
to read; I write until I can no longer write
and the notebook on my desk and pencil
in my hand grow tired of the synonyms,
and then I translate a translation
from the translations.
I’m like a child—
I’ve learned that knowing brings me joy,
and so I translate. I search for more.
Intention evades me, still I wonder
Tell me, do my poems rhyme?
I know my rhythm stands like a
phrase turned one too many times,
but even so, the sound is mine.
Do you hear that wayward rhyme?