He Met: A Swedish Translation Poem

Eight telephones tall, I ran out

Knotted oaks painted the lands with glitter

I forced her nigh in the jagged oral light, while

Rats solve the hotel’s mysteries after dark.

Low, run-down bars pair the Orient’s rings

Encompassing names with jeans and Harley-Davidson leather jackets,

switch blades and cheap whiskey.

Scaring children to sleep.

 

© 2017 Claire Fiori

 

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