Burned into the reasons of being, all the old words fit
Into the new graves:
The infinites wake up cooing like eager gas tanks;
And your breasts I wonder how it feels to feed under the old
And Spanish ships,
Eclipsed by the green skies; and all of the waves out in the
Combing mess,
Worshipping the migratory patterns, while mothers slip away
And weep beside the canals dredged up by man;
While my words try to recall her number, and the cars
Cross the land,
Until once again the city is made impotent and polite,
And the cheap, cheap dollar’s worth of kite pulls on its lovers
Wrist,
Tugging like a displeased goldfish trying to leave into the darker
Goodbyes for good and all night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem