Someone waits at my door. Because he is
dead he has time but I have my secrets-
this is what separates us from the dead.
See, I could order take-out or climb down
the fire escape, so it's not as though he
is keeping me from anything I need.
While this may sound like something I made up,
it is not; I have forgotten how to
lie, despite all my capable teachers.
Lies are, in this way, I think, like music
and all is the same without them as with.
The fluid sky retains regret, then bursts.
He is still there, standing in the hall, insisting
he is someone I once knew and wanted,
come laden with gifts he cannot return.
If I open the door he'll flash and fade
like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds
one summer night at the edge of the world.
One of those poems where it is enjoyable and engaging, but still incomprehensible. Like vising my mother with Alzheimer's. I love her, but she makes no sense. I know that's redundant, but so is pointing it out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The poet seems to have made an earnest attempt to construct this poem but the words, though, selected painstakingly, do not convey anything sensible. I request the poet to revise the same.