While I empathize with and understand
your proclivity for self-preservation, I hope
you can pardon me tonight’s chemical indiscretions.
I, too, harbor no aspirations of expediting the inevitable
end of the mutually beneficial results of respiration.
Weariness, I suppose, is what drives me here—
intermittently invoking lung-death
in the quietly drifting snow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem