I do not know what it means to be
Under the tents of your world—
As I grow potbellied and overcast—
I teach school
And you changed your occupation—
You wash dishes,
As my art slits its gizzard for you—
Now there is a library of songs around
The garden of your corpse—
And I have crossed the canal into
Another world for you—
The rain is singing—
The cats are talking—
And I have gotten married because of
You—and the day drags along,
Many-hoofed—the chariots keeping us
Separated in the race,
As we try to appease our one too many gods,
Forgetting the love buried like arrowheads
In the archeology of our souls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem