Like skiing a mountain, then suddenly
falling off. Breaking several limbs,
slow motion. How funny
to not crack my favorite:
my chicken wishbone, the carcass
around my heart where I once read you,
first impression of awe, followed by
the glamour of slow dying.
So I stopped everything, free in an air
of dead rapport, awaiting your call,
a receiver to answer me when only
a machine spoke at my bedside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem