I want the girls with the pretty plastic faces
teeth like polished poached ivory
and hair of leprechaun gold.
My flesh is fading
desentigrating
like a lit candle in a wind too damp and cold
But if I watch the girls with the pretty plastic faces
perhaps i can make for myself a mold
a plastic face for when my flesh gets old
and when that wind comes to fetch us our nerveless armor will doubtless hold
and we wont feel.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem