Here are the seating arrangements lactating
In mausoleums
With ceilings full of blown glass in the shape of
Shells—
The day spinning industriously—the patrons
Burning in and out of the supermarket where
You worked with her—
Like candles turning in a rink—the small candles,
Children—or the dimming elderly—
And the alligators smile and yawn with the lions
Not knowing what they do—
As you disappeared from riming the cusp of my
Dreams—and flew away with your children
To the land of horses and unicorns.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem