My toes seem terribly far away
The five digits, like five complete strangers,
sit close together, coldly indifferent
There is a phone by the bed, and it's connected to the world
but there is no one with whom I wish to speak
Ever since I can remember my life has been nothing but one errand after another
yet neither mother nor father taught me how to make small-talk in this world
Forty years spent writing, relying only on line breaks
When asked "who the hell are you?" it feels the most reassuring to say I am a poet-
How strange that is, too
When I abandoned my girl, was I a poet
Eating my favorite baked sweet potato, am I a poet
Is this man with thinning hair a poet
There are hoards of such middle-aged men, though they are not poets
Chasing pretty butterfly words, I am nothing
but a child ignorant of the world
The spirit at three
remains so naive, not even noticing how it has hurt others,
and heads toward one hundred
Poetry
is absurd
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem