Rain streaks the casino windows
clean as a yellow tiger.
The croupier totals up
and asks about you. Outside,
the night quiet as a purse thief.
Streetlights hum under their breath.
I'm drunk as a Rahv, I've seen
the last of you, thinning streets,
alabaster water pools and apes,
pasha's and satraps fat and rich
as desert shieks.
An ivory moon opens like a peacock
against the scrubbed sky,
A girl lights a Gallois, smokes
in the rain, naked under a raincoat.
She'll spend the night in a poem
by André Breton, but I'll spend the night
alone, guess I've seen the last of you.
A marriage announcement next year,
no doubt, a photo of a handsome swell,
a pack of stiffs in tuxedos over bourbon
and ice cream.
But I've seen the last of you
in an emerald dress, the posture
of a girl carrying a hockey stick
and teeth white as cherry orchard.
The moon takes me into her arms
like a mother who has forgotten
a child in the bath.
Tomorrow I'll clear out, take that job
with the Tribune, a weather report says
I've seen the last of you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem