On Translating a Poem Originally Written in English

Let me copy down another paragraph
of stones and a little of the the recalcitrant
hubbub I'm used to Yep! Waves look empty
as newsprint.  Girls open up like umbrellas,
and grieving passengers photograph pastures
of ocean birds, pick up a wiffle ball
and toss it like a remedy for relieving
a headache.  They puff their half-light tragedies
with a single dreamy puff.  Can I see
the missing ponytail? Sometimes I find
myself, the only one in the boat referring
to the sinking feeling one can have after
looking into an ethereal face.
But then a few, and then some, and then some more
come on-board with their life jackets on
bracing for a tidal command. I have a word for it.