There is a fire in the mirror,
floating like a vapor on
the soft summer air.
Splendid is the vertigo of nuns,
the nakedness of motion,
and the realization the moon
is a drowning white tortoise.
I am terrified of clowns,
of the retarded, of blue-haired women,
of all those whose perfection
has been stolen.
Shatter this wound.
Erase it from memory.
Cancel the universe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem