my problem is that i try to hold onto slippery things.
and you are an eel
at three in the afternoon, or in the early morning, it’s always the same:
the sting that lingers on my skin is your devotion to me
this passion is not pretty: it is dangerous and strange, so
don’t be frightened, if you find your foot cut,
a trail of blood following you down the beach.
it’s just my way of proving
that all fish have sharp teeth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem