The dissipation of contempt
and a thousand displaced fingers
could carry us like smoke,
dispersing carelessly in the wind
but the door is locked
and our frozen image
in a dank and humid basement.
The light bulb hangs from its cord,
dully illuminating you with its flicker.
Dust filled beams breath
the shattered flame of something lost
and hatred molds within me
at the ever lingering presence
of photographic perfection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem