As awful as the pools without sisters,
Nude stores emptied of unclothed nuptials and now
This,
A short cut to a bosom that dead ends as the waves
Toss,
And all of the necessary washing machines stop their
Machinations,
Like parked cars where lovers no longer caress;
And I think it would be awful if she had to forget me,
No less-
But after the swift lives of fireworks, only so many
Cenotaphs lie with the emptied wrappers
In the trash;
And the fairs of her heart where I once laid captivated,
Tormented and beating my chest through wreathes of
Fire
And pagan fare thee wells- moves on,
Like the fox pot bellied from all the fairy tales he’s destroyed:
And the witches he’s made love to now
As calm at cheerleaders after a show, their bellies like
Stolen watermelons bashfully distended from what jubilations
They have had with all of the charisma exuded
From body and bone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem