The ashes that float away
from the end of a lit cigarette
turn into flies, millions of tiny flies
that gnaw at my skin
like last week's lunch meat.
I am never going to dream again.
Green apples make you suffer.
Blue bed sheets make the sky
look pale by comparison.
The embers of a minute flame
in memory of lightning bugs I murdered
on a lawn as a late evening child
(to decorate an old tee-shirt from the Sea Horse motel) .
South Beach: 1974, a boy waved to his grandmother
from the diving board-just before
his miraculous disappearance. The mask he wore
was heavier than that of a clinician researching
all of the dangerous fissures of this universe.
The grandmother, re-knitting old sweaters
under the sun, quite grave on her vacation,
dwindling in the sorcery
behind the movement of windchimes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is great poetry...no other way to put it. this will go on my favorites list...in short, I loved it.. Always, Amberlee