I'm shedding dreams one by one
Whether or not they were begun
I'm dropping pieces, crumb by crumb
This weary back leaves room only for one
Tomorrow I'll be cutting off my hair
My head should breathe polluted air
I need to leave my raw sores bare
Let them sting unbalmed-perhaps then I'd care
But fulgid Sylvia shall never give me rest
Salt and mud I've swum at her behest
Till sanity from sanity, zest from jest
My salty, muddy vices did divest
And the day after tomorrow will see me bent
Palms and soles upon eggshells; evenly flattened
Raking among the brittleness, my hands shall collect
And in the remains of the fallen, I shall cathect
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem