Instead Of Translating Bob Kaufman

I wash my face, pour another glass - yes, glass,

dark yellow glass mug - of coffee, sip

the bitter taste and sit down again,

but now having enough of translating poems

no one ever reads I close down the open pages,

think of writing something of my own

that no one ever reads. But,

dear Descartes, what has been written, is.

So, here, hunched over the laptop, I

write these lines as
the morning emerges from the night.

11.09.2017