All young cops have soft

    mild eyes. Their upbringing is lavish¹.

    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 stumps³， looking at valleys

    and thinking of their moms. But woe⁴ is me

    if a young one gets mad. A Scourge⁵

    of God rings， with a club that later you can

    borrow to blot⁶ 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 inscribed⁷.

    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 stump² of a tree. The cop himself would be sad

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

    when smoking pot： melancholy⁸. 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.