Very scary, I admit―
your vintage―
lovemaking with
a ghost.
Life in a crate was
creating nonpoems.
Water on the ice moon
was never there.
Unmasked you shoot a
songbird in flight.
The soft music went into
the barrel of the gun.
Come and meet my other
self. My penchant for talking
to flowers has made
me a martyr.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem