My sad youth can almost smell your
Bolero,
When there is nothing left to spell and
Just lightning stores;
And I have been in and out
And in and out of Arizona and New Mexico;
And that is where my dogs are now in a lightning
Storm:
Tonight I looked at her youthful body in a room
Almost full of crepuscule,
Like a guitar in Spain, what the artists
Accumulate for;
Youthful séance of the time we have yet to live,
Truck dealers who have yet to deal with
The hours of pain- Never a truck filled up with
Cement or citrus:
And the day starts out like this glorious, and it
Was well worth it;
So the pain mummifies, prostitutes in their
Perfumed mausoleums waiting out the storm willfully then
Come out into the yard and smell the
Opening sky,
Like Spanish fields of
Purple butterflies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love this one too. Fantastic articulation of mood. Killer last lines. Great stuff Rob