Three wet days,
and a ceacked rib to boot!
So much self inflicted pain
and every other thing
a tangled mess.
Committing ritual suicide,
quite out of earshot,
I make the call
I'd promised you I'd make
in the bathroom of a downtown hotel.
Her voice clings
like torpid incense.
And I'm filled again
with that ancient confessional dread,
unable to say the thing
you would have me say
without a certain degree
of
conscious
inexactitude.
Old habits die hard.
Back at our table
I tell you it's done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem