It isn't that I want to live that way—like the sun
And the moon,
In a courtship of nonsense—like bodies pegged to
Bodies—
The billowing cadavers of another preternatural
Midway—
And always someone who is gossiping—
As they seem to be trying to make a tract of their
Shells—
Most of the time failing—sometimes doing some
Good—
But giving everyone else a hard time—
Yes, I believe—this is how it fairs, if it fairs so well:
Weather, foul or good, overhead—
Like over passes over the flea markets,
With all of the beautiful wives always going somewhere.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem