and no one cares about you.
I leaned down over
don't care about, I care about
you
I leaned down over the
world in portrayal
of carefulness, answering
something you couldn't say.
walking or fallen and you
were supposed
to give therapy to me—
me leaning down
brushing with painted feathers
to the left chance your operatic,
broken
book.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
We write our lives. Imperfect, human, fully of a fullness of intent and carefull tenderness. Sometimes the pages must be tearful.