Translating Fantasy

1.

Beds of frost
In forsaken
bone yard…
The lamppost
digs
the face
of one
soon

shall metamorphose
Into frost
of imperial coffin pattern

and
with white slabs of wool

and
deceased compassion

I lie within
Below the brown cap of
My elegiac
chapel

clouds walk like
lizards on ceilings
and pines
with drooping
white hands

sick
and orphan
mocking
epiphany

like a hooting
silver
star

crystallizes
like bed
in the garden
afore
my eyes…