Open lips of empty sea-shells are beautiful—
And I think of you
While I am walking alone at the flea-market
On an usual weekend,
Trying to remember the way we caressed
Like two otters in their joy—
Who use simple words to knock on doors
That the crocodiles see—
Long passions spinning as ferris wheels next
To the highway—
As pregnant mothers lose sight of their first
Loves as they look away,
And the amusements spin up beneath them—
Graveyards blooming like televisions
From the anonymous crypts where the
Unambitious promises of kindergarteners used
To sing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
what do you want to say? Why does this poem make me sad? Bret!