[O'Hara translation 8]

I am off, and cut-out — could
keep inventing new words for

each click and bang of
throat and teeth. This

balmy heat of morning —
this thrum and tumble, rarer

and far furious. To slump
toward the lay of the land. We

part as the piece is. Long
as the luck is. Surely as

the dream is mended. And I
go ooh! enough.





[My last translation of O'Hara's "Qu'est-ce que de nous!"]