All young cops have soft

    mild eyes. Their upbringing is lavish.

    They walk between blueberries and ferns，

    rescuing grannies from rising waters.

    With the motion of a hand they ask for

    a snack from those plastic bags. They

    sit down on tree stumps， looking at valleys

    and thinking of their moms. But woe is me

    if a young one gets mad. A Scourge

    of God rings， with a club that later you can

    borrow to blot your bare feet.

    Every cop wears a cap， his head murmuring under it

    A sled rushes down a slope in his dreams.

    Whomever he kills， he brings spring to，

    whomever he touches has a wound inscribed.

    I would give my granny and my

    grandpa， my mom and my pa， my wife

    and my son to a cop to play with.

    He would tie up my granny's white hair，

    but he'd probably chop up my son

    on the stump of a tree. The cop himself would be sad

    that his toy was broken. That's the way they are

    when smoking pot： melancholy. They take off

    their caps and breathe their tears into them.

    Actually， they're like camels riding

    in the desert， as if it were the wet palm of a hand.