in the corner of the small square park
a rat picks at a lunchwrap
the night is quiet & the moon is still
the clouds shift above the sober
winter trees & their branches are edged
with ice
everywhere about me small insects
scratch through grass & leaves
i wait below the aureola of lights
the city & the hum of cars
silence & darkness
the woman who is inside me
all the time has turned & faced me
her long hair brushes the side of my
cheek the breeze of a razor
she turns her hands & smiles
i am a little afraid but calm
i want to die
in the corner the rat picks
into the soft centre of a sandwich
i tremble like dry paper
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem