Scar of sun in the
Sky- spider wound- floating
Like a match stick spume
Burning Christmas trees in
July;
And bicycles run speaking
Over the bridge,
Going to collapse with the
Maidens whose skin is as
White as icecream-
Ferris wheels evaporate
In perfect delusion-
And I think of the
Girl who can only love
Me on
Every other holiday.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem