So when my profile
falls apart
and every swing door greets
a stranger an old man has
kidnapped my soft face.
My eyes are full of red lace
my wrists alloyed with copper,
my body fallen into chinoiserie,
so let me collect, talis qualis,
small sins in a tin box
postcards under shoes in a cupboard,
as the breaking of my shell is
the looking at pictures through a window,
bits of the past, calls on a dead line,
everything gone but not gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
everything gone, but not gone, thanks. I like it.