If I am sailing now to even the heights
Of Tenochtitlan
It is because even now my scars are golden,
And I have a flag of your hair
That my lips are always blowing;
And it seems to be the very energy
Of the part of you
That can never fail; In fact, it is the very part that
You cannot remember,
That used to leaven you and took you up past the
Quagmire of leaden stones which
Played havoc with your compass;
And why I am always writing love poems about
You,
It is because of this homeopathic spell I hold
In my gut or in my heart,
And the fact that I cannot spell it with any certainty
Only proves it even more:
The coral snake that went to a warm place in my beer
And pierced my Adam’s apple going down,
Just a small reminder that Satan knows who
I am:
The horned devil who lives in your cellar,
That you don’t suppose to deny, because his fruit is so
Sweet. I just want to move in there with him,
Next to the wine bottles
And cenotaphs of the usual conquistadors
And listen to your noise making bed above our heads,
Like the halls of a merchant ship out
Braving so many a nightly storm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem