[O'Hara translation 4]

A sigh for these sights, for this
dangerous landscape, with plains,

trees, and cataracts — a tear. I am next
to myself, am flicking my wrist

in the moon-/June- light, now
murdered. The wind abates me,

averts me, turns sorrow to an embrace
or something. See, saw, sang, song,

sunk! This light's of poetry like a dollar's
of gas, and I am no longer

entertained by the calm allure
of the west (palm trees and swimming

pools!), the earth's lazy loops
toward the lay of the land.





[Other translations are here, here, and here. The original can be found on page 258 of O'Hara's Collected Poems.]