My transgressions pile against the garden wall
(built when Rome began to weaken, scarred
by a cannonball.) I gossiped; I snubbed
a dinner guest. I watch until the wall writhes
with awful feral cats fed by shrunken widows
and the odd librarian. I've begun to be depleted
by your absence; one of love's worst symptoms.
For years, I'd had the sense to hold myself apart.
I've been here long enough to kill
two mint plants and a lavender,
then resurrect their better part.
I'd like to let you die on the vine.
Not you, the You I Dream,
who follows through on waking.
See how the watcher sees the storm
but doesn't get wet. Be that.
Be what?
Be wiser than the heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem