Each pinwheel burns across a new caesura:
They say this is where the mermaids have been sleeping,
Bathing in the foam underneath the pomegranate crosses:
But that the men who came to love them
Having crossed the ocean—
It is not enough: checking the window, there is no airplane:
They bathe there feral outside of school forever:
They know nothing of cul-de-sacs singing sweetly inside
Of vermillion suburbias: they only know that all of that
Has been made up:
The busses turning around pretending to believe in butterflies—
The fairies who hold clitoral orgasms in the apexes of their wings:
What do they know of business:
All of theirs is the fanfare—everywhere like pollen over the fields
Of a holiday—maybe they will even fire the poor boys tomorrow,
But, at least, they will never have to grow up—
If this is what is real: concrete, and professions, and dead ends,
Then let tomorrow be a hidden thing,
And the beautiful spirits grow in the grottos underneath the cypresses
That lactate their pollens bell tides to an ocean who knows
All of their names.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem