In arcades of sweat and bad math, we do this
Again,
While the night just makes the sound of cats making love:
It is a naturalistic way to go:
But the elephants are very quiet:
And there is no pausing in our art: Alma, I just want to taste
You and feel your gentle brown rasping on my door:
And you’ve done this for
Six months now;
I’ve known you, and we’ve made love, from time to
Time
Going back and forth like sailors, while you reconcile
With your abusive misanthrope,
While I pound harder and harder liquor,
And then your children get sick, or they get well:
So the dragons take to the sky with the airplanes
And the stewardesses, but they are not necessary all bad:
There is still some hope left to them,
As beneath their interrupted slumbers, some girl’s hands still
Pushes clay:
And his lips still blow glass into fantastic machinations:
But if it was soon, it was not today,
But I saw you, and held your perfect brown body in my gaze,
And made up rhymes of love,
Before I was made to walk away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem