as I am beguiled by the moon's shine,
when the streets are so quiet.
The sun has patience with my living
for the afternoon's mass-produced romance, that
dog-eared story where he ran on the glass,
and ghostly suitors, their noses smells badly,
queue up to know my waning.
The sunshine backslaps the moon to
me, splintered, kissing the road face,
I have slipped it
Her eyes are big, she besieges me with love.
So I remind her that everything cries. All the
brilliant eyes can do for me then is spit light
on the road while I look for a place to sleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem