Xrist, Almighty!
both resolutions snapped
at a rate of 0.5 per day;
before the gaudy pine
(to which cling tinsel-bits)
is tossed in the gutter;
and well before the three kings
come with dull gold
to barter on the mulch-man's behalf.
I don't care, really-
vows so easily broken
surely can't've been meant to be kept.
Meanwhile, my soul's a crimson sail
that unfurls like a poppy, nightly
but tightens each day to a bud.
It rolls on and on-
It would dye the sea red
before agreeing to be stone-washed white.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem