I'm a landscape painting
A Tuesday evening
I'm muddy green in spring
The slowest French film
I never had someone who
I
Could
Be
Myself
Around
Because I'm tedious and pointless if you don't get what I see
And no one ever does
It's terrifying, exhilarating, beautiful and saturnine
It begins with never taking the negative spaces for granted
And the wind is home to the other things that we don't talk about
No one knows where the wind will land its birds, it's far far away
But it probably ends with the second hand stuck one tock from clock
My end, the end of everything. And the dullness will still exist
Around
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem